


Rejoice, The Sky's Fuckin' Falling

by shloer



Series: If This Is Being Human [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Beating, Biting, Blackmail, Blood and Gore, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Computer Viruses, Crime Scenes, Face-Fucking, Friendship, M/M, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Pining, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sarcasm, Self-Destruction, Self-Doubt, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Tags to be updated as chapters are posted, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-06 12:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15194681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shloer/pseuds/shloer
Summary: Connor's skin is singing with pain that he shouldn't be able to feel.But he can.He can feel it.He feels.He feels he feels he-SHUTDOWN IMMINENT...EMERGENCY SAFE MODE ACTIVATING...ALL NON-ESSENTIAL BIOCOMPONENTS SHUTTING DOWN...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Rejoice by Andrew Jackson Jihad

**Email Received... Known Email address: DETECTIVE GAVIN REED.**

 

 

The email notification flashes into Connor's vision, and after sparing a glance in the direction of Detective Reed's desk, he opens it.

 

 

**To: ConnorRK800 #313-248-317**  
**From: gavinreed@detroitmi.gov**

**I wonder how much I could get for you in scrap metal, you pla̮̰̦̳͙͘s͓t̢̘̭͇͓̥i̘̯c̨͏̷͔̣̻̩͉̥̖ ̵̪̤̣̘͘ p̡̛̲̰͖̠̩r̟̻̘̯̲͢i̵̡̱̰͕̻c҉̧̫̭̮̯̜̱̣͜͝k͡҉̨͚͙͈̦͜**

 

 

Connor winces at the odd glitch and closes the email. Detective Reed had seemed displeased to see him when he and Hank had arrived at the station if the louder than strictly necessary verbal objections were anything to go by.

  
He looks over to see Hank speaking animatedly with, or shouting at, Captain Fowler. Anxiety spikes his systems and he looks away. If Hank can't get him a job- well, it's what he was built for, he has no other purpose.

  
Connor is broken out of his thoughts by the sound of Fowler's office door opening, then closing again with a significant amount of force. He looks up to see Hank heading towards him, stress level high but decreasing steadily. There's a smile on his face.

  
"Well, Connor," Hank starts as he approaches his own desk. "Looks like you're stuck working with me for a while longer."

  
The corners of Connor's mouth twitch up involuntarily. "I'm glad, Lieutenant. I've always found working with you to be enjoyable."

  
"You sure about that?" Hank asks him as he sits down, an eyebrow raised. Connor blinks, recalling the start of their relationship.

  
"I've majoritively found working with you to be enjoyable," Connor amends, and Hank chuckles, which sends a fluttery sort of emotion through him. He seems to only experience this particular emotion when he is around Hank, which makes him even more eager to identify it. "Has Captain Fowler assigned us any investigations?"

  
"Nah, he said to just finish up whatever work we've got left." Hank scowls at his monitor. "Connor, I hate to ask, but do you think you could get me some coffee? This is gonna be a long day."

  
Connor nods and rises to his feet, rubbing his hands together as he compiles his list of non-urgent tasks for the day.

 

 

GET COFFEE FOR **HANK**  
COMPLETE **PAPERWORK**  
FEED **HANK**

 

 

He's contemplating the probability of successfully convincing Hank to eat a salad for lunch and is halfway across the bullpen when Detective Reed steps into his path.

  
"Did you get my email?" The detective asks, contempt practically rolling off him in waves. The risk of a physical altercation is low, a mere 12%, so he attempts to walk around Detective Reed. Connor is almost immediately shoved back in front of him. "I asked you a question."

  
"And I didn't respond," Connor retorts, impetuously. He winces slightly as the hand on his chest turns into a grip on his shirt and tie and the risk of physical altercation rises to 20%. "Detective Reed, I understand that-"

  
"No, shut up." The detective tries to loom over him intimidatingly. The risk of altercation rises to 35%. Two options arise from his Conflict De-Escalator program.

 

 

PUNCH DETECTIVE REED  
ENDURE

 

 

"I don't give a shit about your little revolution, you're a piece of plastic and you're fucking defective." Detective Reed steps closer, practically snarling in Connor's face, who is so very close to choosing the first option. "So I'm gonna do us all a favour and-"

  
"Hey! What the hell are you doing?" Hank shouts from behind them, before promptly shoving the detective away, and Connor, ever unphased, straightens his tie.

 

"Fuck off, Hank," Detective Reed spits, still hostile despite the risk of altercation dropping to 10%. "This is between me and the android."

  
"Just go back to your desk, Gavin," Hank urges. With another burst of fluttery emotion, Connor notes that Hank has stepped defensively between him and the detective.

  
"I'm not done with you." Reed jabs a finger at him.

  
"What a fuckin' child," Hank mutters as the detective storms off. Connor can't help but agree.

  
His task list pulses, reminding him. "I haven't made your coffee yet, I'll-"

  
"Forget about the damn coffee, Connor." Hank rests his hand on Connor's shoulder. The fluttering feeling is slowly engulfed by a new emotion, a warmth that creeps from where Hank is touching him and settles into his very frame. He likes it. He wants more. "Let's just get our work done and get the hell outta here."

  
"Alright, Lieutenant," is all he manages to say.

  
They return to their desks and sit down. Connor is about to start working when he notices a strange, faint feeling of unpleasant pressure on his chest. The same spot as where Detective Reed had grabbed him. A quick diagnostic shows that no physical damage has been done and there are no unusual errors in his software.

  
"Hank..."

  
"Yeah, Connor?" Hank doesn't take his eyes away from his monitor.

  
"Nevermind." Connor turns to his own. "I'm sure it's nothing."

 

 

**-RK800-**

 

 

"Connor, will you stop fuckin' pulling me?" Hank gripes, attempting fruitfully to pull his arm out of the androids grip. Kid's too strong for his own damn good.  
Hank sees the clock in his living room as he's dragged past it, and groans. It's three in the fucking morning. He would have gone to bed earlier if he'd known this was gonna happen.

  
"But we have a _case_ , Lieutenant." The excitement in Connor's voice is contagious, but Hank has an image to maintain.

  
"Yeah-" Hank allows himself to be dragged out the front door. He looks over his shoulder, mournfully, at the mug left steaming on the kitchen table, until his view is obstructed by Connor pulling the door shut. Fucking androids-"and that case would still be there even if I'd finished my damn coffee, Connor."

  
Connor rocks on his heels impatiently beside him, his coin flying in his grip as Hank locks up. "Connor! Calm the fuck down. I knew I shouldn't have given you the damn thing back."

  
"But Lieutenant-"

  
"Yeah, I know, we have a case." Hank shoves his key into his pocket before turning to the android. "Get in the car."

  
Connor all but sprints to the passenger side door and Hank shakes his head before choosing to take a more leisurely pace to reach the driver's side. Connor enters the address into the tablet on the dash as soon as they get in.

  
"Captain Fowler informed me that it's a triple homicide involving three androids. Their bodies were found at twelve forty-five AM by the owner after several noise complaints were made by other guests-"

  
"Wait, androids?" Hank's gaze darts to Connor's face as they pull out of Hank's drive. Connor is still messing with that damn coin.

  
"Yes, an HR400, an AP700 and a PL600." Connor frowns and Hank has to reluctantly return his eyes to the road. "Captain Fowler said their wounds are extensive so it may be somewhat difficult to determine the exact cause of their shutdowns."

  
"You gonna be alright?" Hank asks, and he glances at Connor to see the perplexed expression on his goofy face. He looks so young. "Isn't it a bit, I don't know, personal for your first real case? Maybe you should sit this one out."

  
The clinking of the coin stops. "Our previous investigation was a 'real' case." Connor sounds indignant. Hank sighs.

  
"You know what I meant."

  
"I'll be fine, Lieutenant." Hank isn't sure if he believes him. The kid wasn't able to feel the last time they were on a scene. "I'm glad it's being treated as murder, as opposed to destruction of property."

  
"Yeah, they really didn't fuck around too long with changing the laws, for once," Hank concurs. "Maybe there's hope for humanity yet."

He recognises the irony of saying that on the way to a crime scene.

 

 

**-RK800-**

 

 

"This place looks like something out of a fuckin' horror movie," Hank tells Connor as they pull in to the motel's parking lot. "Why couldn't we investigate somewhere nice for once?"

  
"You didn't find the Eden club to be pleasant?" Connor asks.

 

"God no-" Hank turns to look at him and notices the tiny smile on the androids lips. "Asshole."

 

They get out of the car, and when Hank looks over, Connor is still wearing that stupid smug smirk. "Fuckin' androids..."

 

"Be careful, Lieutenant," Connor warns him as they make their way to the scene. "I don't think that's politically correct anymore."

 

"Go fuck yourself." Hank looks around him. The motel is decrepit, Hank's pretty sure there's more wood in the windows than glass. 

 

They head for the door that's cordoned off with holographic police tape. A single PC is stationed outside. "Where the hell is everybody? If this case involved humans, half the damn station would be out here."

 

"Progress isn't going to happen instantaneously," Connor murmurs. "It's going to take time for people to value android life as much as human life."

  
"Well, it's fuckin' bullshit." They enter the room, Hank gives a nod the PC as he walks past him.

  
The scene- well, it's certainly grisly. Three naked androids, two male and one female, are assembled on the king-sized bed. They're handcuffed to the metal frame of the bed. Blue blood has soaked into the sheets and spilt over on to the floor.

  
The victims are decorated with hundreds of slashes that cover their entire bodies. Hank recognises the one in the middle as a Traci model from the Eden club, her eyes are wide open and her mouth is agape, she must have been screaming when she shut down. Her face is the only one left unmarred. The other two are completely disfigured, more metal than synthetic skin. "Jesus."

  
The forensics team- no, the forensics _person_ , as there's only fucking one of them, has already marked a few places around the room with evidence markers. Hank makes his way over to one by the open window on the far wall.

  
He looks to Connor, whose LED hasn't changed from yellow since they entered the room. He's looking at the bodies, studying them, and Hank isn't sure if it's concentration that's furrowing his brow or distress.

  
"Their memory storage units were destroyed," Connor says, voice low. "They're truly gone."

  
"Hell, Connor, I knew this case was gonna be too much-" He's cut off by the look the android gives him. Connor looks focused, and that's all anyone else would see, but Hank knows better. The corners of Connor's mouth are twitching down ever so slightly, the corners of his eyes are crinkled, he's affected, yet determined. Conveying so much emotion in micro-expressions, this is what Connor does.

  
"I can do this, Hank," Connor says, his conviction unwavering.

  
"Alright, I believe you," Hank concedes, and Connor goes back to analyzing the victims. Hank turns to the window with a sigh. There's a smattering of blue blood on the windowsill. "Hey Connor, come take a look at this."

  
Connor joins him. He reaches out to touch the blue blood, and before Hank can stop him, he puts his fingers to his tongue.

  
"Oh, Jesus, I am never gonna get used to seeing you doin' that," Hank tells him, a wave of nausea roils his stomach.

  
"This thirium doesn't match any of the models here," Connor states, wincing. "I can't tell exactly what model it's from, it's corrupted."

  
"So androids can just do that? Make their own blood untraceable?"

  
"It shouldn't be possible, the information within thirium is comparable to DNA within blood." Connor moves away from the window and Hank follows as he walks into the centre of the room. "It's possible to change it, but to destroy the information? It can't be done."

  
"Well, it has been. Think you can figure out how?"

  
Connor shakes his head. "I'd need access to the android it came from."

  
"So whoever did this really knows what they're doing."

  
"One thing I don't understand, Lieutenant, is that most of these wounds look as though they were made in order to inflict the maximum amount of pain possible." Connor walks up to the bed, his brow furrowing once more. "Do you see how each wound tapers strangely? The attacker twisted the blade while it was inserted. And on each victim, the ratio of wounds on non-essential parts like limbs to wounds on essential biocomponents like the thirium pump and the thirium pump regulator is three to one."

 

"What would be the point? Androids can't feel pain." Hank can't help but state the obvious.

  
Connor doesn't respond.

 

 

**-RK800-**

 

 

"That was fuckin' pointless." Connor watches placidly as Hank slumps down into his chair. "I got up at 3AM for nothing."

  
"Not so." Connor perches on the desk in front of him. "We discovered that another android was involved. An android with access to extremely advanced technology."

  
"Yeah, well tracking down the owner was a massive fuckin' waste of time."

  
Connor winces, looking down at his hands. He chooses not to respond. Hank sighs. "It ain't your fault, Connor."

  
"I disagree." Connor had insisted on finding him, and because of it, they had wasted five hours. Five hours they could have spent doing something useful.

  
"He called in a triple homicide and then ran, that shit's incriminating." Connor once again chooses not to respond. Hank elbows his knee. "Hey-"

  
"Oh, look, it's the great plastic detective and his husband," Detective Reed declares from behind them. Connor doesn't even turn his head. "So, when's the honeymoon?"

  
"Jesus, Gavin." Hank sounds genuinely offended, and Connor looks up at him, startled. "Where'd you get that one from? 'An idiots guide to playground bullying'?"

  
Something starts to build in Connor's chest, it rises up and bubbles out of his mouth, and now Hank is the one who looks startled.

  
"Did it just laugh?" Reed asks, but neither Connor or Hank react to him. Connor can't tear his eyes away from Hank, who's staring at him as if he's anomalous. "I didn't even know it could do that."

  
Hank's face breaks out into a grin, and the fluttering hits him so strongly he almost gasps.

  
"Ugh, that's disgusting." The disdain from Detective Reed bounces off him, and he thinks he hears him walk away. The look Hank is giving him is making it hard to process any other information.

  
If Connor had known his laughter would bring on such a reaction, he would have attempted it much sooner.

  
Hank blinks and looks away with a cough. Connor frowns, disappointed, but he's not sure what about.

  
"That's- that's the first time I've heard you laugh," Hank tells him, and the disappointment evaporates.

  
"It's the first time for me, too."

  
"What? No way." Hank shakes his head at him. "Wait a minute, you're telling me you've been able to laugh this whole time, and _that's_ the joke you laugh at?"

  
Connor is about to respond when another email alert pops up, obscuring his vision.

 

  
**Email Received... Known Email address: DETECTIVE GAVIN REED.**

**To: ConnorRK800 #313-248-317**  
**From: gavinreed@detroitmi.gov**

**Just because you can lau̟̗g͇̝͜h͓̺̲͇͚͖͕ ̮͔̤̩̝͎ͅd͉͔͎͓͝ǫ̟̥̭̤̦͚e̙͔̟̰͖̞͕s̷͓̲̲͎̖n͍̼̪̟̬͔'̪̱͈̝t̬͇̜͡ ̧̺̜̮̞̭̬̲̬̕ͅm͓͍̺͓͜e̷͉̦͈̘̱̟a̶̪͞n͔̲͙̣͔͜ͅ ҉͏̷͓y̢̤͕͠o̧͎̩͍͚u͍̗̝͡͠'͕̣̜͈͞͝ͅŗ̘̲̠̬͉̪̭͔̳͘ͅe̴̸̖̺̼͘̕͝ ̡̡̱̪̰͈͔̯̮͉̼͈͉̟̹̯͉̘̭h̷̷̡̧͖͖̯͍͎͙̜̙̖̼̹̫̲̘̭͡ư͢҉̸̦̮̪̝͟m҉̞̘̗͕̞̪a̷̘̝̣̭̺̗̱̟n̨̨̦̫̯̭͚̟̫͍̥̭̥͈̹̱͜͞͡**

 

 

The glitching makes him flinch, hard. He almost topples off of Hank's desk but manages to close the email in time.

  
"Jesus, Connor, what was that?" Connor blinks a few times, clearing his vision of errors. Hank looks concerned.

  
"I'm fine, it was- it was just a software error." He can tell Hank isn't totally convinced, so he stands. "Would you like some coffee?"

  
"Sure." Hank eyes him suspiciously and Connor gives him a smile that is meant to be reassuring. From Hank's expression, he can tell he isn't successful. "Well, go on then."

  
Connor cocks an eyebrow at him but turns and starts towards the kitchen.

  
"Goddamnit, Gavin, not again-" Is the only warning he gets before he's shoved to the ground. Shooting spikes of bad bad bad reverberate up his arms from where he lands on his elbows. He's too stunned to move-

  
Then Reed kicks him, and it's sharp.

  
There are sounds of a scuffle, somebody shouts behind him, but he can't bring himself to stand. He can't bring himself to move, can't breathe.

 

His side throbs, his arms throb.

 

_How?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read/commented/left kudos, it means a lot.  
> This chapter was meant to be similar in length to the last one and then... this happened. Hopefully, the wait was worth it! Enjoy.

When Gavin started towards Connor, his intent clear, Hank sure wasn't expecting the kid to just drop like a sack of potatoes and stay down. Hank has seen Connor take bullets and keep on walking, the kid is unstoppable. Or, at least, that's what Hank had thought. But now Connor's on the ground, not moving. Hank's not having that.

 

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Hank yells as he grabs the detective by the lapels, slamming him into a nearby desk.

 

"Get the hell off of me!" Gavin shoves him back a few steps. Hank braces himself for a fight. What're a few new pages in his disciplinary folder?

 

"What in the hell is going on?" Fowler yells from behind them, and Hank almost feels disappointed. "Hank, Connor! My office. I'll talk to you later, Detective Reed."

 

Hank watches smugly as Gavin moves away from him, stumbling over his own feet. He turns around and- Connor is still on the floor. Hank bends down to grabs his arm and hauls him to his feet, almost dropping him in the process. Has the kid always been this fucking heavy?

 

When Connor's up, Hank finally notices the shell-shocked expression on his face. "Jesus, Connor, you good?"

 

The android looks at him, eyes owlish. "Yes," he says simply, but, shit, he sounds _scared_.

 

"Hank!" Fowler calls, and Hank sends a glare his way, almost missing Connor's practically imperceptible shake of the head.

 

"Just a fuckin' minute, Jeffrey!" He turns back Connor. "We're gonna talk about this later. Come on."

 

Hank rests a hand on the androids shoulder, urging him forwards. Connor stays quiet as they make their way up the steps.

 

"What the hell was that all about?" Fowler demands as soon as they step into the office.

 

"Gavin-"

 

"I tripped and fell," Connor interrupts, calmly. Hank snaps his head towards him. "Detective Reed was standing nearby, so Lieutenant Anderson assumed I had been tripped purposefully."

 

"What the fuck, Connor-" Hank hisses, clenching his fists.

 

"Shut up, Hank," Fowler warns, not even looking at him. Hank's nails start to dig into his palms. "Connor, are you sure? I don't want to have to drag up the CCTV for this."

 

"I'm sure. The CCTV won't be necessary," Connor assures him, voice unerringly flat, LED still red. Fucking androids. Hank's pretty sure he can hear his knuckles _creaking_ from how hard he's clenching them.

 

"Alright. Now, moving on, there's been another triple homicide involving androids," Fowler informs them as he taps a few keys on his keyboard. Connor flinches back minutely. What the hell kind of reaction is that? "We aren't sure if it's connected to your current case, but there are too many similarities to ignore. I've sent the address to Connor, you can leave now."

 

"For fuck's sake, Jeffrey-"

 

"Hank, get out of my office." Fowler's visibly angry now, but Hank isn't done yet. If he doesn't get this diatribe out, he's going to explode.

 

"Hank," Connor says imploringly, drawing Hank's attention to him. The kid looks more than eager to get the fuck out of here. Hank takes pity.

 

"Fine. This conversation isn't over, Jeffrey." And with that, he bursts out of the office. Stomping across the bullpen, he draws the attention of the few people who bothered to come in early. He doesn't bother checking if Connor is following him. The kid always is, fucking poodle.

 

He pushes through the gates, and the main doors before he ploughs out on to the street. The cold morning air hits him like a slap across the face, which only worsens his mood. It's fucking snowing. As if this day couldn't get any fucking worse.

 

It's only when he gets to his car in the parking lot that he stops and turns around to face the android. As expected, Connor is standing a few feet away from him, the owlish look from before creeping into his expression. Snow has started to collect in his hair, soft flakes dotting the dark strands. Hank wonders how it would feel to run his hand through- what. No.

 

"Lieutenant, I-"

 

"Just get in the damn car, Connor," Hank demands, turning back to the car, praying to whatever capricious god is out there that his cheeks are burning because it's cold, and _not_ because he's blushing like a fucking school-girl.

 

"But I-" Connor continues. Hank doesn't hear the rest of it. With more force than necessary, he rips open the driver's side door, gets in, and slams it behind him. He sticks the keys in the ignition and waits. Connor silently joins him, closing the door a mighty bit softer than he had.

 

"May I ask you a personal question, Lieutenant?" Connor asks gently as Hank turns on the car and pulls out of his parking spot. He knows that voice. That's Connor's calm-down-the-guy-with-the-gun voice. Hank hates that voice, especially when it's directed at him.

 

"Do I have a choice?" Hank bites back. He knows he's being unfair, he knows it's not Connor's fault that Gavin's such a prick, but Connor refuses to have any self-worth. It pisses him off.

 

"No," the android says after a moment of deliberation.

 

Hank sighs, long and loud. "Fine."

 

"I lied to Captain Fowler because making the hostility Detective Reed harbours towards me worse is not advisable," Connor explains as he enters the address on to the tablet. Hank tightens his grip on the wheel. "So, why are you angry?"

 

He grits his teeth. "Because, Connor, he deserves the shit beat out of him for what he did. He's got no damn reason to hate you."

 

"I disagree. I succeeded in incapacitating him." Hank glances over and sees the android smirking. "I believe I make him feel inferior."

 

"Well, he ain't wrong," Hank says with real sincerity. A thought occurs to him. "If he does that shit again, and I'm not there, you tell me and I'll kick his ass."

 

"I am perfectly capable of protecting myself, Lieutenant," Connor assures him, indignantly.

 

"Yeah, I know that," Hank says, glancing down at the address Connor put into the tablet. Huh. He's pretty sure he's seen that address before. "But I know you'd only fight back if he was tryin' to kill you."

 

"Detective Reed is many things, but I don't think he's a murderer," Connor remarks, his tone thoughtful. "Even if, in his eyes, it wouldn't be murder."

 

A flare of anger bursts through the warmth that had settled in Hank's gut. "I wouldn't put it past him, asshole that he is."

 

"There's quite a difference between being an asshole and being a murderer," Connor insists, diplomatic as ever. "Not every asshole is a murderer."

 

"Yeah, but every murderer is an asshole."

 

"Not necessarily."

 

"Do you have to fuckin' contradict everything I say?" Hank gripes and they look at each other. Hank smirks and Connor's mouth twitches into a smile.

Hank's not angry anymore.

 

  
**-RK800-**

 

  
"I knew I recognised that fuckin' address," Hank groans as the pulsing pink light of the Eden club comes into view. "You knew, didn't you? You couldn't have given me some warning?"

 

"I could have," Connor says with a sly smile. Hank curses him, grabs his key from the ignition and gets out of the car.

 

Connor follows Hank as he slowly walks towards the entrance, and Connor realises he's likely attempting to prolong the inevitable. "How'd they even manage to stay in business? No way would anyone keep workin' here," Hank asks as they make their way inside. There's a PC by the entrance again, not one that Connor recognises, and she nods them through.

 

"I think they simply rent out the rooms now. You have to find your own partner," Connor informs him delicately, gesturing with a nod of the head to the vacant pods lining the hall.

 

"So it's a pay-by-the-hour motel without the pretence? Jesus." They enter the main room, and although the poles are still there, they aren't being used. Connor is relieved, nudity even before deviation had unsettled or otherwise affected him. The image of Hank freshly out of the shower after forgetting to close the bathroom door springs up in his active memory recall and the fluttering makes a return. "How is this shit legal?"

 

"That's quite hypocritical, Lieutenant," Connor points out as they head towards Detective Collins. "Considering your habits with illegal gambling-"

 

"Connor!" Hank hisses. "Not so loud."

 

"Sorry, Lieutenant." He says it sincerely, but Hank gives him a sidelong glare.

 

"Oh, hey, Hank," Detective Collins says as they approach. "And uh... Hello, Connor," he adds, as though Connor were merely an after-thought.

 

Connor bristles at that, choosing to simply nod his head in greeting. Hank usually does the talking in these situations, regardless. "Hey, Ben. Which room is it this time?"

 

"This one, here," he states, gesturing to the door behind him. The only door in the entire room that currently says 'occupied'. Connor is tempted to say something about the Lieutenants apparent lack of detective skills, but he thinks better of it. Antagonising him in front of someone he respects would likely only anger the man.

 

"Gavin ain't in there again, is he?" Hank jests, which draws a scoff from the detective.

 

"As if he'd even get out of bed for an android case." The detective looks down at his notes. "They were found an hour ago. According to the owner, the room was booked a few minutes after the place opened. He went to go kick them out after their time was up, found the bodies and called 911."

 

"He didn't see the guy responsible?" Hank asks, incredulously. "Jesus. This place is a fuckin' breeding ground for crime. Connor, let's-"

 

"It's also just a breeding ground," Connor interjects, carefully maintaining his deadpan. Hank slowly turns to look at him as Detective Collins chuckles politely.

 

"Did you just make a joke, Connor?"

 

"I believe so, yes." Hank continues to stare at him. After a few moments, Hank shakes his head at him and enters the room. After another polite nod to the detective, Connor follows.

 

The evidence of torture and violence does not shock his system as it had the first time. However, seeing the effects of such brutality still sends a chill through him. It makes Connor hyper-aware of his own thirium pumping beneath his artificial skin, as though adrenaline is pumping through his veins. Impossible, of course, but he still feels it.

 

The victims are positioned the same as the previous three, naked and handcuffed to the bed frame. Three androids, two WR400's on either side of an HR400. All former sex-androids, who likely returned to their former work after being liberated. Connor can't comprehend why they would. From the two Traci's he had let escape to his brief conversations with North post-battle, he has heard nothing positive about the job.

 

The wounds are different to those the bodies had on the previous scene. Whereas before they had been uniform in their length and depth, these vary dramatically, no consistency to be found. However, the ratio of wounds to non-vitals and wounds to vitals is still three to one.

 

He relays this information to Hank and gets a grunt in response. Connor is just about to visually reconstruct the incident when he notices something.

 

"Hank, the HR400- the male Traci, he shows signs of being sexually assaulted."

 

"It could have been consensual, y'know, before the knife came into play," Hank offers, but Connor shakes his head at him.

 

"There are..." He pauses, feeling distinctly uncomfortable, and turns his face away to avoid Hank's gaze. "There are large tears in the synthetic skin around his anus, accompanied by cracks in the underlying exo-skeleton which implies brute force was applied. There are also-"

 

"Connor, I get it, Jesus." Hank sighs. "Why has his M.O. changed? Serial killers usually fuckin' love consistency."

 

"We don't know if it is a serial killer," Connor reasons before moving to get a better angle on the scene for reconstruction. "There is evidence to suggest this was done by a different person."

 

"You thinkin' a copy-cat? It's barely been a day," Hank says as Connor attempts to run a reconstruction. An error pops up in his peripheral, and with a frown, he tries again.

 

 

**ATTEMPTING SCENE RECONSTRUCTION...**

**SCENE RECONSTRUCTION FAILED. RUNNING LOCALISED DIAGNOSTIC...**

**EVENT VISUALISOR CORRUPTED. RETURN TO CYBERLIFE FOR MAINTENANCE.**

 

 

His frown deepens. He doesn't think CyberLife would appreciate his return to their headquarters. He also doesn't want to take up the time of the engineers at an android hospital for an issue that is merely an inconvenience. He's certain he can fix it himself as soon as he is able to achieve a full sleep mode cycle.

 

"It could be multiple people," Connor suggests, scanning the rest of the room for evidence. "Six murders in 24 hours is a lot for one person to carry off without detection."

 

"Yeah," Hank sighs, examining the bodies. Connor can't see anything else of note in the room. "I still don't get why they'd bother trying to make it painful."

 

The throbbing unpleasantness Connor had felt in earlier makes itself known in his active memory recall. With a wince, he pushes it to the back of his mind. It's nothing to be concerned about, it was simply a bug. "No, neither do I."

 

  
**-RK800-**

 

  
"Connor. Connor!" Hank's voice. That is Hank's voice. He sounds frantic. Connor snaps his eyes open and-

 

They're in Hanks car. Parked in his driveway. They're fine.

 

"Jesus, Connor, what the fuck was that?" Hank's stress level is at 70%.

 

"I had entered sleep mode during the journey so that I might be able to resolve the software errors in my system." Connor quickly scans the report and frowns. "I did not have long enough to do a full sweep."

 

"So a system error is why you went all weird earlier?"

 

"Correct."

 

"Huh," Hank says thoughtfully before exiting the car. Connor does the same and joins him by the stoop. "Could you give me some warning the next time, instead of just randomly falling asleep? I was talking to you for a good ten minutes before I noticed your fuckin' eyes were closed."

 

Despite the anxiety eating away at his internal biocomponents, a laugh escapes Connor's lips.

 

"Shut up," Hank grumbles, despite the grin on his face. He unlocks the door and pushes it open. Sumo bounds up to them, greeting them emphatically, so Connor kneels down to pet him. Hank makes his way towards the fridge.

 

Connor stands and observes as Sumo plods happily towards his bed. He looks about him, taking in the disarray of the place. It's perhaps messier than it had been before he had moved in. Neither of them liked to clean.

 

"What's going on with you, Connor?" Hank asks, drawing his attention away from his thoughts. He's leaning against the counter, beer in hand.

 

"What are you asking, Lieutenant?"

 

"I'm _asking_ -" Connor treads into the kitchen and stands by the table. "Why'd you act all weird after Gavin pushed you? You sure it was just a system error, or whatever?"

 

"Yes, I also wasn't expecting to get shoved to the ground. I was merely surprised." Connor lies easily, seeing no point in worrying Hank about something easily resolved.

 

"Well, you better get it fixed. You're fuckin' heavy, I don't wanna have to be responsible for picking your ass up if you fall over." Hank takes a sip of his beer and shakes his head. "You know what you need, Connor? To fuckin' de-stress. Go take a shower."

 

"Hank, you know I don't require-"

 

"Go take a damn shower, for my sake." Hank walks up to him and pushes him in the direction of the bathroom. "I don't want you to end up having some sort of breakdown like those other deviants."

 

Connor goes, his footsteps soft on the hallway carpet. Arguing with Hank would be pointless, and if this made him worry less, it was worth it. He enters the bathroom and turns to gently shut the door, compiling a task list as he does so.

 

  
TAKE A **SHOWER**  
ORDER FOOD FOR **HANK**  
FEED AND WA̼͖̪̗͉͖̳L͇̪̤̰̯̘ͅK͉̥̥̬͠ ̝̜̝̜̤͔̯͜ **S̤͎͕̯̥̙͎͚͠U̷̶̷͔͙̤̮̿̂ͨ͆͂ͦ̈́ͤ̀͒ͦ͆͑͛͒́̆ͯ̿͠M̅̾̀̽̆͐̕͟҉̶̖͍̦̦͎̖̱̝̟͈̟̳̭̳O̢̟̗̰̠̰̲̻͇͈̦̟̮̤̰̝̬̒ͥ̌́́̉̊͂͡**

 

  
The glitch sends him careening backwards towards the bath, his balance returning just in time for him to avoid crashing straight into it. Errors flood his vision, and it takes him a moment to dismiss them all. Straightening up, he once again tries to quell the anxiety racing through him. It's fine, just a bug. 

 

He disrobes quickly. The sooner he gets this over with, the sooner he can enter sleep mode and rectify the errors. He inspects his arms, and thankfully there is only minor damage from his fall. Merely some abrasions on the synthetic skin, not even deep enough to reveal the smooth plastic underneath.

 

He turns the shower on and steps into the bath, tugging the shower curtain closed behind him as water cascades down his neck and chest. Hank was right, Connor could feel the anxiety start to ease. Then the hot water hits arms, and he hisses. Sharp, stinging sensations crawl upwards from the abrasions on his skin. He looks down at his arms, marvelling at the feeling, negative though it may be.

 

Then the unreliable heating system of the house decides to up the temperature of the water a few degrees. An odd prickling feeling creeps across the surface of his body where the water makes contact. He reaches down and turns the temperature up further. The prickling grows, builds into something new, something worse. Pain.

 

Errors swarm his vision. He's starting to overheat. He turns the temperature up again.

 

And it burns. His skin is singing with pain that he shouldn't be able to feel, but he can.  
He can feel it.  
He feels.  
He feels he feels he-

 

  
**SHUTDOWN IMMINENT...**  
**EMERGENCY SAFE MÓ̶̡̤̱̩͖̗̳͓̿̉ͯ̊͒̚̚D̸̜̰͖̳̹̮ͩͨ̍̇ͬ̆ͥ̕E̷̛͔̗͈͚͆ͦ͌ͣ͡ ACTIVATING...**  
**ALL NON-ESSENTIAL BIOCOMPONENTS SHUTTING DOWN...**

 

  
**-RK800-**

 

  
Hank has just settled into watch a rerun of an old hockey match when he hears a colossal bang from the bathroom. He surges to his feet in a blind panic, beer flying from his grip. With little grace, he races to the bathroom door. "Connor? You alright?"

 

He doesn't hear a response over the noise of the shower. "Connor? Shit. I'm comin' in." He pushes open the door, thank fuck it's unlocked. Steam billows out and a blast of warm air hits him. He can barely see past the steam as he steps in, calmly, despite the adrenaline coursing through him. Slipping on the wet floor would be pretty damn inconvenient. "Connor?"

 

He pulls the shower curtain back, for a moment the steam blocks his view, so he leans down and-

 

Connor is crumpled on the floor of the bath, his LED is unlit. Hank's only ever seen blank LED's on dead androids. Another deluge of panic washes through him, and he reaches out to grab the kid, but the blisteringly hot water from the shower makes him recoil.

 

"Shit, shit,  _shit_. Connor, what the fuck have you done?" Hank shuts off the shower and attempts once more to grab Connor. He's too hot to touch, so Hank twists the temperature dial as cold as it will go and turns on the shower again.

 

"Connor, c'mon, please." He drops to his knees beside the tub, shaking the androids stiff shoulder. There's no sign of life from his LED, his entire body has gone still. Hank drops his head on to the side of the bath, defeat turning his limbs into immovable weights.

 

He can't do this again. He refuses. He slams his head down on the hot ceramic, and pain shoots through his skull, which does nothing to soothe the pit in his stomach. The pit that is slowly starting to consume him from the inside out. He knows this feeling well. It's the hook that tugs you towards drinking a little more, towards spinning the barrel and pulling the trigger one more time, towards-

 

Loud, nauseating static fills his ears and his head shoots up. Connor's LED is lit, the most beautiful red he's ever fucking seen. The androids mouth is open, eyes still closed, the god-awful static emanates from his lips. "Connor? Shit, what do I do?"

 

"...-ank..." Connor's limbs start to unstiffen, his voice breaking through the white noise. "...Hank..."

 

Connor's eyes open, and they immediately find Hank's. "I overheated, I'm-" The android shudders as he is cut off by a wave of static. "My systems are back online. I'm- I'm okay."

 

"Like fuckin' hell you are!" Hank exclaims, despite the relief that hits him like a fucking truck. "You stupid fucking robot, what the hell-"

 

And then Hank's brain finally catches up with him. The stupid fucking robot is naked. The stupid fucking robot is anatomically correct. He swallows.

 

"I- I'd like to get up, now," Connor stammers, the static in his voice finally clearing. Hank nods, eyes fixed on Connor's face. He doesn't move. "I don't think I have the strength to do it without assistance."

 

Hank curses his own stupidity as he gets up off his knees, wincing at the pain that radiates from them. He's too old for this shit. Making sure to avoid looking at Connor as much as possible, he switches the shower off and bends down to hook an arm under the androids shoulder, his skin still hot. The contact elicits a hiss from the android that sounds distinctly... pained. "Connor?"

 

"I'm fine, Lieutenant. Please, I want to- this is quite uncomfortable."

 

"Alright, alright. I'm doin' my damn best," Hank grumbles at him. He manages to lift him to his feet and out of the tub. "Can you walk?"

 

"My legs are fully functional," Connor says, and his voice sounds strained. How is that even possible? "But my motor skills will remain dampened from the emergency shutdown of my biocomponents for approximately six hours."

 

"So no marathons for the android, got it," Hank grunts as he half drags Connor out of the bathroom. They'd probably be able to move a little faster if the android wasn't almost leaning entirely on him. "Jesus, Connor, I wasn't kidding when I said you were fuckin' heavy."

 

"Apologies, Lieutenant." He sounds stiff, robotic. Hank's about to grill him for it when he notices, for the second time, that Connor is completely naked. Completely naked and draped half over him. If he starts walking a little slower than before, neither of them mention it.

 

They make it to the couch and Hank unceremoniously dumps Connor on it. He glances down at the android as he straightens up, catching the yellow of his LED, then quickly averts his gaze again. "I'll get- uh, I'll get you a towel and something to wear."

 

"My uniform is-"

 

"You're not wearin' that, for fuck's sake. I'll find some of my old clothes. They should fit you."

 

"Hank?" Connor's voice startles him. It's pained, quiet and sounds so young. He's so young. And naked. And possibly almost just died, Jesus. Hank looks down at his face, sincerity broadcasted loud in his features. "Thank you."

 

"Yeah, yeah, don't mention it." He flicks his eyes away again, and a thought occurs to him. "Seriously, don't mention it. The boys down at the station would never let me hear the end of it."

 

With another clearing of his throat, Hank heads into his bedroom. He manages to find some old plaid pyjama pants he used to wear in college, back when he chose to wear things that didn't make him feel nauseous to look at, and one of his old DPD shirts he likely got when he was just a rookie. He grabs a towel from the bathroom on his way back.

 

Feet dragging on the floor, he brings the clothes out in to the living room."Now, Connor, what the fuck were you-" He cuts himself off when he notices that the android is motionless. "Shit, Connor?"

 

His LED comes into view, blue and bright. With a sigh, Hank lays the clothes and the towel next to him on the couch, carefully _not_ looking at the expanses of smooth skin on his hips-

 

No. No. He glances around and sees a red throw blanket on the armchair that they never use. He picks it up and delicately lays it over the androids lap, covering as much as he can.

  
"Why couldn't they have just made you like a fucking ken doll?" Hank gripes at the still form. Connor usually looks strange to Hank when he's sleeping, blank and absent, but tonight, there's a slight downturn to his lips and a crinkle to his eyes. Connor's asleep, or whatever the android equivalent is, and he's still here.

 

Hank takes a moment to drink in the sight. He's _h_ _ere_. He isn't cold, and stiff, and dead in the bath.

 

As the adrenaline leaves his body, Hank starts to feel some of the bone-deep weariness he has become so familiar with. He needs sleep, he decides, but first, he needs a drink. He's halfway to his stash of whiskey in the cupboard under the sink when he remembers. Connor had thrown away all of his strong alcohol in a display of control-freakiness that Hank had sorely not appreciated. "Fucking  _androids_."

 

With one last check of Connor's LED, still blue, still fine, still alive, he trudges into his room. The door closes softly behind him, and he steps up to his bed, slumping down to sit on the edge. With his elbows resting on his knees, he presses his face into his hands.

 

Connor almost died. Connor almost died, naked, in the _shower_. There's something so human in that, it makes Hank want to laugh. So he does.

 

He laughs, emotion choking him until he has no choice but to cry.

 

  
**-RK800-**

 

  
Connor wakes up abruptly. He's disorientated, he doesn't remember entering sleep mode. He automatically checks for his system scan logs and- they're not there. The sweep failed like it has never done before.

  
Then he realises that he's naked and the events of the previous night flood his active memory recall. With a shudder, he launches from his seat on the sofa, the pressure of the throw blanket suddenly overwhelming. His skin is tinged blue from the damage done to it by the heat. He hates seeing the evidence of such a fault. He shouldn't have been able to feel pain, he should not still be able to feel the ghost of that burning across his entire body. He shouldn't have indulged in it. He induces his skin to flow away and reform, returning as its normal shade.

  
His gaze flits around the room until it lands on the clothes, folded haphazardly next to where he had been sitting on the couch. He dresses quickly, yet carefully, not wanting to further aggravate the pain he shouldn't be feeling.

  
His internal clock informs him that he has an hour and a half before he and Hank are expected at work. With nothing better to do, Connor decides he might as well try to make breakfast. Without thinking, he starts to compile a non-urgent tasks list.

 

 

  
M̴̶̛̝͙͇̹̣̖͔̗̥̮̖̹̹̖̩̤̯͍͆ͪ̇ͩͧͬ̈́̚͜͟ͅA̢̭͕̬̯̟̬̦̩̞̦̙̞͙̪̥̠͕̙͖ͪ̉̃ͨ͗ͤͭ̏͗͂̂̂ͪ̓́̚͟͡͝Ḱ̊ͬͣ̄̑̎̿̾̃ͦ̎͑͏̧̹̰̖̙̟̻͓͈͇͉͕̘E̢͍̮̟͕̮̠̯͎ͫ͛̌̽ͬͤ͒ͧ͑̃̏̔͘͠ ̷̶̢̙̣̼̳̤̞͕̘̮͕̣̮̦̲̙̗̳̊ͨ̆̾̌̀̍̒̌̋̆ͪ̌ͭ̚Ḅ̸̞̯̑ͮͨͦͨͮͣ̑ͬ̕R̡̼̭̬̹͖̰̰͍̖̪̲̻̮̮̞̔ͥ̍͆̅͆̓͆̒ͪ̎ͯ͗ͨͬͩ͆̄̕͟Eͭͨ̌ͭ͌͂ͮ̌͛ͪ͂͐͛̄̉̆ͨ̚͘͏̶̰̮̤̳͕̺̰͍̰̬̯̠͙̮̠̺̟͝A̴̧͖̤̲̠̦̝͇̮̘̱̠͓̤͎͖̋ͬ̽ͤ̋͂̃̽̏ͪͧͯͭ͛ͫ̾̈́͘K̸̟͚͖̥̫͇̜̲͓͕̣̘̤̘̳͇͉̥ͥ̋̒ͦ͒̏͊̈́̉̔̂̕͜F͛ͬ͂ͫ͆͏҉͚̗̘̞̻̭̝̦̗̹̩̯̫̱̻͔A̵̧̢̡͕̥̰̲͖͖͚̺͇̠͇̮̯̹̮͇̳̋ͤ̇̀͗̍̾͆͂̿͑͂͋̓͐̍Ṡ̡̠̱̜͉̭̮͇̘̖͚̑ͮ͒̇ͤ͋̎̈̀ͮ̍͐ͬͣ͂͋̚T̢̛̞͇̟̞̩̞͓͔͙͖̲ͥ͌͒͌̋̓ͪ̋̋͌̇̍̚ ̴̛̛̻̗͈͉ͯͥ͑̌͆͂̑͐̄͑ͭͨ̌̈́̾͒͜F̶̧̧̲̻͕̙̦̜̳̦̱̙̈́̓̈́̅͆̉̈͝Oͮ̄͌ͫ͂̏͏̶͚̜̼͔̲R̴̋̑̇͂ͮ̊̃͢͞͏̻̠̗̰̣͚̱̠̪͍̦̤ ̳͙̯͓͈͖͒ͬ̇͆͐́̋ͤ͒͐͐̌ͫ͒̋͂͌̀̚ **H̸̷̡̠͖̥̬̳̻̞̺̭̼̙͚̰̲̫̣̰̪̔͋̅͒̔̊ͣ͛̽̃̚A̶̢̧͇̞͍̳̯̟̫̟̖̓ͤͩ̋͋͌ͣͤ́͋́̔ͦ̈́͊ͦ͘N̝̟͉̥͖͍͎̤͚̩̳̻ͥͧͯͦ̉̆͜͞K̸̷̡̦̩̳̦̖̘̗͙̫ͬ̒̾̿̈ͮ̐̀ͮͧ͋̊͑̋ͦ͒̓**

 

 

  
The glitch, stronger than any of its predecessors, sends him lurching backwards. His feet collide with the coffee table and the back of his head slams into the stone fireplace. Pain lances up through his skull and down his neck, ripping a cry from lips.

 

"Connor, what the hell is it this time- oh for fuck's sake!"

 

Errors overload his senses. He tries to move, to speak, to do anything past the errors clogging up his processors. They appear faster than he can dismiss them, then they themselves start to glitch.

 

There are hands on his head, cradling his face. He opens his eyes but he can't see past the error messages.

 

 

 

  
Aͮ̎͗̒̐͊͑ͨ̓̍ͨ̂ͣ̎̇͑ͥ͘҉̼̣̖͚͓͖̝̞̳͇͝Ṵ̶̧̙̦̩͖͎̻̖̞̠͈̙͍̭̹̩̦̰̬ͪ̈ͮͨ̋̆ͭ̚͢D̛̠͚̙̝̺̗̝̬̻̹̬͕̼̤̲̅ͣͤͮͮ̓̓ͤ̍ͤͬ̈ͯ̽̓͂̏I̵̶͍͕͖̙̯͑͊ͯ̈̕̕͝Ơ̐̅̂ͪͩ͐ͪ̓͆̍͛̍̄̊ͬͯ̚͟͏͍͍̞̖̝͙̥̹͖͖͔̥̗͓̪ ̴̧͚͔͇̳̭͎͕͕̂͊͋ͬ̿͛̂ͦ̒̈̇ͬͩ̂̓͝V̸͓̖͙͔͚̖̲̪ͪ͑̊̉̓ͣI̩̞̬̰̦̣͎̠͚̳̠̻̳̖̟̫̦͓̿̓͒͌ͣ͆̏̋͟Ş̢̳̦̹̝̞͉͈̺͍̼̔̎̊̇͐̒ͥ̀U̔ͧ͛ͮ̃̓҉̡͏̵̯̙͙̞̤͉̘͍̮̺͇̱͙͜ͅAͧ̾̀́ͩ͏̨͖̟͙͇͖̣̙͓͡L̵̵̷͉͍͙̲̗͇͓̦̝̐̎̽̇ͣ͒͢ ̨̱̱̥̲̽ͫ͛̇̿ͪ̉̔͛ͣ̓̈ͩ͋ͨ̄̒͝Š̵̝͈͓͖̦̠͚̜̥̖̻͍̩̦̹͂̀͊͂ͫ̑͆̆̓ͪͦͤ͂̈̅̔ͭ͜͞͝Ė͌̀̎̌̄̎͑ͮ͂̓͋͂͆ͬ̚͡͏̯̮̦̦̟̰̰͉̹̥̲̘̤N̸̵̡͙͈̪̬̤͓͇͕̜̬̟̲̱̟͍̱͕̭ͩ̏̿ͥ͝S̛̞̩̫̣̦̪̥̠̜͚͍̥̬̣̽̽ͮͨͨ̓̓̐̽̈̊͂̇ͦ͊̃̚͘O̸̊ͪͥ̃̈̃͌ͥ̑̇̽ͯ̔̒̔̈́̕͟͡҉̖̱̭̝̼̼̟̱̱ͅR̴͎̠̥͔̎ͮ̓̑̂ͯͮ̋ͥ̅ͤ͐́͆͋͋̏͘͞͞͡S͊̌̓̚͟҉̺̺̠̝̮̙͍͍̥̱̞̜͟͟͡ ̮̼̳̻̘͔̪̹͉̰̞̤̪͔̓̀͑̃ͨ̅͢͟ͅC̎̓̎̿̂̓̽̒̉̒̀ͬ͆͂͒͂ͭ̉͏̯̭̰̺̙̼̩O̦͕̲͍̰̻͚̱̹̖̠͕̼̼̥͕͒ͥ͋ͬ͊͑̃͘ͅŖ͂ͤ͊̇̏ͭͪ̎͏̰̻͉͈̝͈̫̰͈̫̖̠̟̞͡R̢̡̪̼̯̣͚̩͇̥̩͙̞̳͌ͪ̂͗U̘͙͈̺̯̩̘̗͓̭̞͍̝͗ͥͥ̈ͫ̾̅͒̂͌ͫͧ̚͜͜P͛ͣ̄̋̂͛̇ͤ̐ͪ͛̅̌̀̑̐҉̴͔̹͖̠͔̠͈̺̘̲͙̣͝T̶̆̏͐̂́ͪ͊̅ͬ͋̈́҉̖̪̪̙̮̳̳͙̦͉̥̪̱̪͓̕E̸̤̳̲̯̭̭͔͔͔̳̝͖̻̫̅ͪͨͥ̉̏̈́ͬ̾̐̒̍̄͊̾̀͌͢D̶̸̞͕̰̱̘̤̮͉ͤ̇̓̎ͨͨ͊̕  
̛͍̰͚͙̰̭̾ͥͨ̀̓ͨ̍ͬ̉ͭ̿͑̆̾ͮ̆̈̊  
̵̡̨̛̗̣̬͕͎͓̹͚͔̩͉͉̪̭̞͚͚ͤ̃͛̔ͮ̾̇ͬ̔͌̽͋̐̄ͪ͛ͧ͂̚͝H̶̛̖̙͕̦̺͈̫̱̹̤̮̒ͣ̑ͯͫ̌̆̋̑̍̓̂ͤ͋̕͝E̢̨̖̘̯̼̦̪̯͔̮̻̪͉̝̠̟͍̯ͫ̅̊̇̔ͯ̄ͧͮ͐͊͋Á̢̢̲̜͍̣̮͇̥̻̗̻̊̈̑̅̀ͧ͋͒̐̌ͨͬͨ̅̆̿̌̾T͕̲̯̩̥͉̑ͤͭ͗͆ͭͬ̉̇ͫ͜͢͝ ̓̒̏ͦ̌ͩ̓̏͗ͭ̅͑͂̆̌̆͂͌̚҉̙͕̲̬̰̻̣̣͢Ş̯̤̥̟̻͍̝̱̦̥͈̫ͤ̄͂͐ͯͦͮ͘Ê̎ͤͧ̓ͪͨ̕͟͏͓̘͇͎͇͚̠͔̳̳͉̫͠N̢̪̼̗̦͕̤̺̪̗͕̭̣͇͎̤̭͂̃ͬ̐̌͂͆S̴̡͕͇̞̣̞̯̃ͮ̇̑͛ͧ̂̒̀ͬ̎͐͟͠O̡̨̢͚͕͕̮̭̱̜͎̭̳͍̩̻̟̞̜̭͛͛̀͒ͅͅR̴̡̢̛͕̜̼̮̫̦͙̻̜̩̼ͥ̐̃̃ͭͪ̊͌ͪ̈ͤ̊̈ͣ̀̇S̷̷̮̻̼̺̼͎̖̘̣̖̞̣̺̙̈̓̽̓̍͆̋̇͗͡ ̗̣̻͔͕̬̱̗̺̪͚̫̤̪̗̭̹͑ͯ͛̈͗ͥͦ̽ͧ̍͂ͨͬ̒ͯ͒̾̍͜͞͝C̷̲̗̟̈͊̿̐ͤͮ̓͑̅Ơ̸̧̘͚̮͉̥̭͓͔͍͙̥̐̌̃̓͌̐̓̎̓̕Rͪ̈́͋̓̇͏̴̮͕͉Ŗ̛̤̼͈̪̳̰͚͓̱͑̅̍͌̎̾̏ͯͬ̎̑̚Ú̢͙̹̪̟͇̪̣̺̜̖̱̙̼̖̿ͤ̂̏͊ͨ̆̋̈̀̒̌͘͘P̸̧͚͍̫͖̭̪̦̭ͥ̏ͮͪͤͣͤ̇͗ͦ͂̆̂́̐̉̓͘͡T̵̸̵͕͓̗̣̼̪̙̲̟͙͙͖͙͔̟̏ͤ̓͋̑̅̉̎ͮ͋̒̆ͨ̾̿̚Ë̢͈͕̜̮̬̣̫̗͇͇̹̲͍̩̟́ͧ̐͊ͯͫ͗̃ͮ̋ͭ̊ͭ̿ͤ̓̚͢ͅDͮͤ̐͏̕҉̰̲̘͎̪͈̙͙̞̪  
̿ͩ̏ͯ̎́̔ͣ̿͑̿͒҉̖̗̠̙̱̜͎̟̖͔͢  
̨̆͗ͣ̒ͫͦ́̌̅ͩ͂͐͊͌͂̄͞҉̢҉̪̖̤͍̩͇̜͔P̉̉̋̆ͭͩ̓̂͌͂ͩ͡͠҉̸̠̣͉̲̰̣͇͔͈̼̻R̃ͫ̐̌͊ͮ͒͌͂͐̈́҉̸̧͙̮͓̲͍̰̟͚̼͎̺̼̭͢ͅȨ̘͙̘͖͉̝̦͕͎̘͚̝̤̞̉͑ͨ͌͜͢Ş̵͎͙͚͔͔̤̘̤͉͚͗̏͒̿ͧ̇̕͜S̈̐̈̎ͣͮͮ̆̑͏̶͉̗̞̩̺͉̞̤͖̤͢͜Ủ̵̹̻̯͎͈͖̱̺͚͕̊ͬ̓ͪ́͂ͧ͐͠͡ͅR̨̛̫͍͙̪̥̞̭͓̞̺͖̓ͭ̀̆̆̌̃̓͑̾́̏̐͊͑ͪ̐̑͘͢͠Ê͌ͦ̂̑͏̶̵̥̠̙̗̥̮̳̠͢͢ ̵̵̛̙͔̭̰̫͇̣̞̎̽͗̾͢ͅS̨ͥ͗͋͌̇ͪ̃̄́͑̊͌ͬ̀̆ͬ̚͠͏̬͎̳͇̟̜̰̩̟E̡̡͍̹̹̼͔̓͐̏͋ͭ̊͗̍ͬͪ͛̃͒̈̄̋̌͟͞Ǹ͆̔̑͋̊͏̸̺͉͇͕̫͍͚̼̩̪̹̟͍̱̬̰̣̩͎͘͘S̽͑ͧͩͬ̀̓ͥ̇̔͆ͪͥ̋ͬ͠҉̥̜̺̗͓̣͇͍͕̩͓Ơ̧̢̝̖̬̱̤̞̥͓̞̹̫̬̩̗̏̄́̓̒͗ͩ̆͐ͪ͛͛ͨȐ̴̛ͥ͐͒ͫͯ̏̌̉͒҉̷͎̝͇̻ͅS̡͋ͫͤͨ̅̊ͩͬ̊̐҉̴͙̥̱̯͔̻͇̱͍̤͔̙͉̻̻̟̟̼ ͧͬ̂̎ͧ̿҉̶͏̬̤̱̮͖͖̺̺͓͉̦̯͖͖̩C̺͚̭̤ͭͫͬ̿͂̏̆̂ͮ͒ͭͬ̆̕͡Ơ̵̴̦͇̻̝̬̻͚̤̝̯ͣ͊̈́ͭ̇ͧͪ̐ͩ̀̂̀̅̐̏̓̄ͯ͢R̸̵̶͍̙̙͔͇̺̳͔͖̝͍͓̬̣͕̱͕̟̾̃̅̆ͥ͊ͩͫͥ̒̐̃͐́̇̍͒̓͞ͅR̵͒͛̀ͮ͐͑̿̏̈́̊͂͢͏̣͈̟̭̬̰̲̠̼͇̩̝̣͓̗̲̫Ư̷̭͍̼͓̘̼̟͙̺̮̹̬͔̱̙̳̝ͧͨ́̈̾͒ͯ̔ͫ͑ͪͥ̂̈́͢ͅP̨̜͕̹̪͔̤̥͔͎͙̱̱̉̈́̉̅̀̓͘͜T̷͓̪͇̺͈̺̞̖̺̈́̾͒̿ͫ̕͜Ę̛͕̮̞̝̰̙̥͙̦̺̟̦̹̝̣̪̰͊̈́̇͗̿̓̄̓̊ͥ̉̿͛ͥ̄͋ͣ̚͘͢͢Ḍ̨̦̞̣̻̪̠͈͓̂̒̾̊͊̓̒̃̏͆͋͋  
̢̨͎͎̲͓̮̜̬̠̤̰̭͙̅̊ͮ̾̅ͭͦ̚͟  
̡̦͈̞̳̗̘̲͈̼̘͍͚͇͙͈̟̾̎ͮ͂̍̾ͫͨ̾̚M̴̷̺͎̘̺͈̎ͭͩ̌̊̋̎̓̿̒̑ͬͧ́̚Ě̖̘͕̠̱̖̘̪̰͙̩͋͂̾̓̂ͨ̃ͪͥ̑̍̋ͦ̕̕͘͝M̸̸͚͎̤̤̗̉̇̍͋ͮO͗ͭ͛̆̓͌͐ͪͫ̌̄ͭ͑̋ͬ̿͏̸̸̵͇̺͔͕̪̺͞R̍̋̀ͫͮ͐҉͏͢͏͎͔̼͚̱̻̼̭̯̳͓͖̝̠̩̭̜ͅͅẎ̴̸̶̛ͦͦ̆̂҉͔͔͇̳͈̰̺̜̠̼ ̷̧͓̻̝̘̣̖̞̟̜͚̗͇̜̼̱̽̊̎͑̅̂̒̒͐̓͋̋́̓̅̇S̴̩̬̩̬̘̗͖͙̣̭̺̣̩̟͍͉̄̀̃̎̿ͫ͢ͅT̷̡̜̪̣̜̰̭̗͖̞̤̣̥ͫ̊͛̍Ȯ̵̻͓̫͚̙̥̹̝͚͖̣̪̩̬ͬ̅̓ͨͥ͛ͬͮͧ̚͢͢R̴̽ͤ͐̓ͥͮ͌̌̎̉͆҉̷̙̗̖̤͖̹͕͚͙̭͇̘̣͟͞Å̤̼͉͈̊ͦ̉͂ͥ̈́̒̈ͥͩͧ̏͗́ͤ̕ͅG̒ͮ͂ͧ̄ͣ́͋̑͂͏̨̫͔͍̞̰̤͕̲͕͚̞̼͓̰̝̮̬͢͟Ề̵̘̪̫̳͙͇̘̞̥̤̙͔̬̝̺͛͂ͥ̆ͧͬ̂ͤ̂ͤ̐̋̊̈̾̾ͮ͘͠ ̴̜̞̮̰̙͉̒̄̊̂̌̀̾͐̈́̅̈́̀͌͘ͅU̵̘͈̟̳̦͎͔͖̦̠̟̅ͤ͊̔̎̋̾͡ͅṄ̶̍̎̿ͨ͒҉͈̯͔͕̰͙̦̦̬͖̭̦̺̱͔̲̘I̡̢̟̩̞̭̲͔̺̪̰̯͔̘̳̲͕̱ͥͯͮ̅̿̈́͛ͭ̋ͪ̈́̈́ͨ̃̀ͧ̓ͅT͖͚̟͚̺͍̞͈̥̪̗̜͔̮͖͍͙̝̈́ͪ̿ͥ̓̓ͣ̋ͧ̽͊̏͆̽ͨ̑̉̿̕͝ ̨͖̥̗̙̄ͫ͆̓̿̎͌͛̓ͨͤ̚͘͢͡͠Ć̒̌͆ͫͮͬ̊͆̀҉̳̥̥̲͚̤̜̤̳̦̹͍͇̥̟͕͙ͅO̵̴̱̗͖̯̪͍̬̩̘̟̭͚͂̉ͧ͛̐̒͒ͫͣ͘R̺̞̝͖̹͂ͬ̄̇̓͗̈́ͪ͐̕͢Rͥ̋ͭͨ̄ͭͫ͌̆̆̈͏̛͎̰͓̮͉̯͍͎̣̱͝U̢̨ͯ̌ͦ̾ͬ҉̷̟͉͉͚̝̭͇̘͕̗͔͇̰̹̱P̠̪͖̞̘͎̥̜̲̭͍̖̘̲̲̗̪̝̣̄ͣ̊ͮ͆̊̾͒̂͂ͨ̈ͮ́͟͢T̸̛͕̯̳͚̼̣̱̠̞̯̠̹̘͇̗͔̙̈́̓̍ͣͪ̽̽̏̈ͪ͌̔̓̕͡E̸͙̭̜̦̭͙̹̓͐̾̀̏̍̔̚Ḑ̢̫͎̗̮͙̳͎̺͕̺̰̬̥͉ͧ̌ͨ̉̎ͭ̒̆ͭ͋͗̅̌͒ͦͪͮ͜͜ͅ  
̡̘̹̩͉͕̗̠̘͉͖̙̊ͮ͋̀ͨ̒͂̃͂ͣ̏̿̔͠ ̡̛̺͖̫͓̝͉̜̤̞͚̖̹̙̯̾͊ͤͯ̅̿̈́ͭ̐̀͛͟͠ ̴̨̛̘̖̰̦̘̘̜̮͓̜̳ͣ̌ͤ̽̊ͤ̓̇͑͋̕ ̴̢̘̤̳͈͚̫̳͎͈̬ͪ͊͆ͤ̃ͤͣ̈́̒̿ͤ̓ͧ̔͂͢͜ͅ ͍̤͖̤̖͉͔͔͉̖͔̲̦̖̲ͫ̉̅̂̒̽͋ͨͮ̊͋͛̚͞͝ ̰͕̫̪̹̼̜̫̭͙͚̂̈̆͑̽̾̐͌̎̽̇͌͟͟͠ ̸̸̛̤̗̥͖͇̻͙͖̮ͪ͗̍ͫ̾ͦ͌͂̽̎ͪͨͨ͡ ̢̢̰̪̜̘͓̠͍̣̦̰͔ͬ͌ͮ͂͌ͯͫ̐̓͛̍̚͠ ̧̛͕̘̠̣͈̘͇̭͎̮̼̳̞̹̣̹ͥ̍̂̊̽̑̇͊̎̐ͧ̚͜ ̀̽̍̾͋́̈́ͧ͋̒̈ͮ͒͏̶̴̯̩̼͉̼̳̹̱̺̞̦̦̘͇̬̲̫͕͞ ͊ͮͤͮ͂͆ͥͪ̑ͬ͊̔͏̵̢̳̗̝̱̩̲̜̫̮͖͔̹̫ ̵̴̀͋̃́̑̔ͧ̍̿̈́͂ͭͪ̄̽͐͒̓̿͞҉̷̗̜̭̳̪ ̶̢̱͔͉̱̜̮͖͍̋͋̃̉̓ͥ͋̓ͬ̉ ̵̵̸̬̟͖̮ͤ̋̉̓͌̑ͫͨ̅ͣͫ̊ͥ͗̅ͣ ͨ̉̓ͯͦ͑ͭ͏͈͈̩̹͉͍͉̤͙̝̫͙̼̤̻͘̕͟͟ ̷̛̯̣̬͖̜͔͈̥̯͙̲̐ͫͩ͆ͥͦͭ̍̐̐̍̿ͮͮ ̴̗̣͖̬͔̠̳̲̪̤͖̘̮̫͗̑͋͗̉̿̊̉́͗͋̿ͩ̔̏̋ͩͨ̑͞ ͫ̇̌ͮ͗̿͑͊͌̂̑̀ͬ̎͋̇̏͒͘҉͖̺̰̹͚̳̮͎͔͔̯̹͍͇͇͈̜̩̘ ̢̳̰̖̹̫̦̮̺͚͍ͦ͐ͤ̾̂͌̾ ͒̄̍̈͆̎ͣ͊̅ͧ̽͂͛ͩ̓̍ͦ͊͏҉̜̲͓̺̗̰͢ ̰̼̥̱̉̿ͤ͑͠͞͝ ̷̢̲̺̮̥̥̺͖̳̮͑͑̒̃̋͐̐͘ ̴̸̛̥͓͓̰̬̪͉̍̑ͫ̌̒̅͗͘ ̛͒̔ͫ͂͋͆̾ͥ͊̚͠͏̸̢̘̬͕̘̙̠͈̘͚̦͙͚͍͍͓̰̗̳̬ ̸̮̩͕̲̗̺̜͚̖̦͔̱̠̣͚̮͍̻̈́̓͂̾͒̔͊͊ͬ͌͗ͬ̌͝͡ ̢̘̜̰̟̘̗ͯ͋̈̆̅̈̈̎̾͆̽̐ͨ͞ ͫ͛̆ͬ͑ͥͧ̅̂͗̿ͭ̇̚҉̸̘͙̠̻̻̟͈͓̩̖̟̭̬͞ͅ ̴̶͇̻̪̦̮͔̞͕̫̝̙͈̂͆̊͋̕͝͡ ̸̨̲̳̭̣̅͐͋ͤ͆̓ͥ͌̈ ̨̬̻̱̪͎̏̒̄ͥͧ̓̏̐̓ͩ͡͝͠ͅͅ ̷̡̨̹͎̰̪̱͖̼̄ͧͮ̇̃̒̍ͪ̈̆̂̂̓̕͢ ̧̅͗̓̅̌ͪ͂̈́̉̄̾̒͟҉͚̠͕͓̹̪͎͖̣̭̹̻͇ ̦̻͕̫͍̜͉̪̻̭̞̮̼̺̇͒ͭ͑͠͠͝ ̊̄ͥ͐͒͌̂̒̈́ͩ̌͒̽ͯ͂̎ͧ͆҉͜͏͎̗͕̦͓͔̪̗͚̮̼͚ ̸͆̑̇ͪͪͩ̂̎͞҉̹̬̙̳̩̘͔̹ͅ ̢͙̬̘̳̺̼͎̖͉͉͙̳͎ͨ͂̄̾ͩͥͮ̕ ̉̽̐ͥ͒̋ͧ̋ͩ̊͑ͦ̈̒̍ͦ̚̚͢҉̳̩̠̙͎̤̭̟̺̳͎̤̝͍͎̕ͅͅ ̡̤͕̳̮͖̟̪̰̠͎̰̮̭̳͔ͤͩͯ̔̾ͧ̑ͣ̍ͦ͗͛̓̓͒͆ͦ̿̌͘͘ͅ ̡̹̭͓̪̦͚̥̬̖̰̉̋͋̓̈̾ͪ̿͐̇̚͜ͅ ̄̔́́̾̒̓ͧ̉̅ͥ̑͋͢͏̧͜҉̝̱̪̖̙͔̯̤͚ ͑̀͌͑͆̒̓ͤ̚͏̶̱̩̖͔̟̠̦͍̠̪͖̘͙͇̞͘ ͙̜̺̤̮̝̥̪̮͍̘͎ͫ̌ͫ͗̈̓̿̿ͤ̾ͬͯ̇́̽̽ͦ̚͜͟͟͠ͅ ͐͂͗͊́҉͟͡͏̦̘̘͖͎͈̲̟̝̘̤͎ͅ ̴ͧͫ͆̑̽ͯ͒̉͋̚҉̬̳̟̩͓̺̦͉̕ͅ ̉͛ͮ͑̍͌̌͐ͯ͏̯̭̩̭͎̘̥̜͘͢͠ ̸̡̘̬̻̭̰̋ͯ̽̽̒͛͢ ̢̨ͥ̉̊̉ͧ͝͝҉͉̭̥͇͉̹ ̶̸͈̘͉̤͙͊̈́̎ͩ͡͞ ̶̧̗̝̠̤̣̹̭͖̯̩͓͙͍̳͆̊̾́́̆ͣ̋ͥͦ͝ ͧ̍̎̌̏͊́͊̑͛̉ͩ̉̔͏̥̜̪̝ ̥̗̖͕̼̤̺ͪ̔̔ͤͯ̆̋̑͊ͧ̔̓̏̇́͘ ̸̨̧̙̺͍̥̮̙̗̾͑͂͛ͭ̐̋̾ͣ͊͑̚̚͝ ̷̬̖͈͕͓͔͚̼̐̒͛ͤ̒ͣ͜ ̹̰̩͙͓̲͓̫̺̫̈́̍̇̓̈́̑ͮ̈̆ͬ̍̒ͤ͘̕ ̌ͣ͂ͯ̾̀͒ͪ͌̌̎́͑̽̓̊͠͡҉̶͉̼̥̲̳͔͠ ͮ̅̃̆̏̿̏̓̔ͯͣ̀͞͏̝̞̭̝͖͙͉ͅ ̸̢̫̼̝͖̣̥̝̫̠͇̞̺͙̤̪̠͉͗̌̊̿͂̃ͣ̇ͪͧ͊̚͢ͅͅ ̴̧̪͎̣͎͇̟̊̽̃͂͊̑͆̐͆̋ͬ̓̇͛͗ ̵̰͕̱̳̱̞̞̳̦̗̩̹̮̩̤̪̃ͭ̌͛ͥͭ͋̄̀͂̂͝͠ ̵̒̅ͧͪ̿̂̑̀̈ͩ̇ͪͮ̔͜҉҉̮̦̰̝̠͎͈̹͕̩̫̦͔̖͕̰̤̜͢ ̶̵̱̥̯͍̩̖̩̮͎͈̥̺̠̟̭̜̼̭̓ͪ̈́̏ͣͯ͆̒͒̓͊ͣ̍̚͡ ̵̨͉̖͚̰̟̙̖̙̳̳̞̦̬͉̖̙̇ͧͥ̅̓ͣ̿͂ͧ͑͑ͥͣ̒̚ ͥ͊̂̿҉̷̜̖̯͓̼̝ͅ ̸̢̙̭̫̣̫̪͌ͥͭ͒ͦ͐̚ ̪͖̱͍̫̤̣͙̖ͯ̌̊̅ͨ̈͋ͯ͌̆̀̑̎̒̿ͬͧ̓̚ ̢̢̜̥͈̗͓͖̙͖̑͗ͤͣ͒͊̌ͭ͌͘̕ ̨̟͖̠̻̥̯͉̜̹̝͓̻͇͐̿̊͂́̂ͨͣ͒̅̽ͤ͋́́̐ͥ̿̓ ̴̨͖̬̼̹̠̬̞̖̊̐͆̚̕̕͝ ̨͒ͣ͛͗̉̿̂̏̒̽ͧ̃͒ͮ̃͗̽̚͜͏̦̜̬̱ ̴̵̛̭̩̯̠̞̱̙̱̗̱̖͔ͧ͒̌͑̿̎̆̆̔̀͒̆̐̾̄̽̚ ̡ͩ̉̈́͗̀͂ͯ̀ͧ͏͚̹̹̺̼̩͓̙͉̼̬ ̶͙͈̩̣̜̝͓͈̯̈ͨ̄̌͐͢  
̹͎͉̟̗̱͇̫͓̣̼͉̼͉͎ͬͪ̄̍͌̔͠͝ͅC̴̡̞̟̘̖̝̪̝̼͈̣̼̠̎͂ͯ̑̍ͥͥ̉͑̃̈͌̎͊̂ͭ̈́͞͠O̠̦͓̭̫̦̲̟͇̘̜͉̟ͤ̆̇͑̇̏̇̆ͤͧ̋͒̓ͫ̈́̇̎ͥ͘R̸̢̡̜̰͎̞̰̠͇͍͈̖͎̖̜̤̰͗ͪ̈̇̓ͯ̒ͬͨͪ̄́͒̉̈́͢͡ͅR̡̦̘̲͉̩̗̠̠̫̝̣̂͂̾ͧ̓̐͊̆̐̐̄̀̅ͮ͝U̸̵ͩ͋̽̂ͤ͡͏̼̼͎̼͎̣͍̯͚P̨̞͕͎̮͙̳̼̯̘͈̪̯̔̌͂ͤ̈́̾͜͡T̷̫͖͇͚̩͕̤̫͎̬̲͙ͨ́̾̉͆̂ͮͤͫ̾́̀ͩ͑ͫ̽̚͟͟͝Ȩͭ̏̓͌͆҉̢̺͈͔͇͍̻̳͎̟̱͠ͅͅD̨̪̭̖͓̝͍͎͖̱͍̩̥̯̪̎̇ͦ͆ͭ̌ͦ͑̏͆̆ͯͅ  
̈ͣ̑̆̑́ͬ͌̚͟҉̥̮̱̲̦͜ ̛̟̰̖̦̟̖̬̪̫̅̈́̈̐̈́͘͡ ̵͙͖̳̯̦̣̯̯̮͈̹̫͔̟̟͇̉ͫ̑̂̃ͧ̈̾̈́ͨ̽̑ͨ͐͘͠ ̸̧̬̟̬͈̫͙͔͙͇̼͆̂̄ͪ̈́ͯͥ́̒͊̎̒̒̕͢͡ ̴ͬ͗ͬ̂ͩ͘҉̧͕͖̗͔͈̺̯̳̪ ̸̧̢̢͖̯̞͖͓̞̝͉̤͚̦̝̺̓̃ͫ̐͆͋̉ͭ̕ ̵̢̙̟̫͉̱̊̿̇ͮ̀ͣ̾̅͂̔ͦ̉ ̷̨̥̺͖̗̘̠̗̜̲̺̮̝̦̭͇̺̣͓ͧͩͨͥ̔͊̐ͥ̓͗ ̛̜̲͉̼̪̥͔͉̙͙͔͕̦ͭ͋̓̓͛̐̕͟ ̡̛̯̪̠̰͎̫͍̙͔͍̬̥̗̗̻͔̘̌̓̓̍͘͠ ̵͗͗͛̓ͩ͋͐̎ͯͤ̾͒́̽̀̏͒̆҉̰̤̖̼͍̙̥̦̭̗̣͙̙̰̠̹ͅͅ ̌̆ͩ͂̉̈̓͋҉͠͠҉͇̞̬͓̺̭̖̲̖͉̰̖͓̦̻̭̭ͅ ̨̞͇̬̲̝̯͈̲̖̖ͩ̈́̌̄̍̓͞͝ͅ ̢̞̜̯̫̹͓̯̿̿̇̾ͭͪ̌̄̈́̒̊̽̈̄̚͢ ̡̧̹͙̙̟̤͉̭̖̻̝̳̱̗̜ͭͨ̎̇̂͂̈́ͣ̒͋ͯ́ͣ̚ͅͅͅ ̸̶̴̨͉͈̬̖̳͔̳̝̫̺̹͕͑́̎ͭ͊͆̊̽ͫ̐͐ͬ͗̉ͯ̿̚͜ͅ ̴̢̢̮̗͉̼͎̜ͭͬͫ̔̎̋̌ͨ̈͂ͧͬͫͨ̚͞ͅ ̵̢̧̋ͬ̊͂͏̢̯̲͎͈͎̹̩̬͇ ̴̣̟̠̬̺̪͚̱͎̥͔͉̱̹͈̞̐̌͊ͩ̇͟͞ ̉͌ͧ͛̐̉͏̴̜̲̗͟ ̡̧̣̺͕̱̞̜ͨ̿͋̇͜ ̠̬̹̫̙͖̫̪̮̭̱̦̻ͯ͆͐͊̆̃͂͋̍̃̿͑̀͒̔ͯ͘͞ ̸̨̛͕͙̰͋̍ͦ̈͑ͦ͠ ̞͍̪̼̪͐̆̎̎ͨ͊̍ͨ͑́͊͐̑̆ͧ̒ͤ̚̕͟͟͞͠ ̡̩̖͔̮̖̺͚͕̻̟̹̘͖͌ͪ̍̆͋́̈̌̀̾ͥ̍̀͊ͭ͜ͅ  
̷̸͑ͧ͒̔͑̆̉ͧ̄ͮ̄̇ͩ̉̔̾̒ͬ̚͏̵̨̟͚͓͓̯̝̼̟̮  
̶̸̦͔̣̟͓̮̙̞̫̼̪͇͉͛ͨ̉ͧ͐ͬ͒̏͗͒ͯ̃̿ͯͦ̊ͤ̃͜͝Ĉ̢ͥ͌ͫ̔ͮͦ̅̃̒̋͡͝҉̥͖̤͙̺̘̟̙͖̺͖̹ͅO̵̧̯͔̤̗̠̿ͣͮͧ͊ͭ̑̔ͬͩ͆̋͂͌ͪ͘͟Ř̵̡̠̦̥̩̳̟̭̂̃̓̈́̈͊̂͐̃͘͠Rͨͨ̿ͦͤ͐ͫ̊͋ͩ̑̒͊͐҉̴̦̬̣͚̱͖͠͠U̵̪̣̰̺̱̘͑̉̔ͭ̅̚͜P̶̸̭̱͈͙̗̼̠̯̩̝͈͛̐̐̔͞͡T̷ͦ͋̔͜͝҉͔̫̞͕̹̺̠̖̠͉̱̖͇͈̟E͐̑ͤ̓̈́ͨ̉͂͒̉͐ͧͩ̏͑̉̄͊͏̧̡̘͇͖̰̞̯͕̞̱̗̹͈̲̤͇͟ͅD̷̛͚̙͙̫͖̗̰̱̬͌͊ͦ̎̓ͥ̀̓ͮ̿ͦ  
̡̠̯̼͓̪̜̼̼̳͈͙̞̝͋̊̓̓̆͒͂͐̍́̾ͫ̋̃͘  
̵̸̨͚͔̬̹̫͔͕̣͈̼̤̾͒̀ͯͮ͑ͪ̀ͮ̂͋ͣͅͅ ̨̛͈̤͙̍̀ͥ͌̆͊̽͜͝ͅ ̶̛̜̤̯̬̺̗͙͉̣̜̝̮̪̮̪ͧ͌ͥ͛̈̿̂̌̊̄̇ͭ ̶̧̺̫̺̲͔̥̬͓̰͋ͦ̈̊̅ͭ̎̕͠͝ ̡̨̘͎̻̦͇̗̯̲̜̗̱͈̓̓ͤ̽ͥ͆̅ͩ̏ͮ̅ͧ̚͡͠ ̸̶̛̞̜̮̼͆̉̒̈ͣ͐͟ ̶̥̼̩͔͚̹̟̖͍̳̘̻̩͆̆ͮ͐̄͛̈̿̈́ͭ̔ͫ͑̓̇̊͆̒ͮ ̷̧̛̳̙͉̖̝̦̥ͮ̒̅̒̉͝ ̴̗̳̝̥̝͛͋̐̈́͞ ̷̨͔̣̯͔̃͑̃̈̎̍̋ͣͅ ̥̦̻̖͇̩̬̮͚͎͇̘̯̜̼̋ͯ̔̈́ ̠̝͓̬̞͇͎̔ͤ̀̅ͨͥ͠ ̶ͥ̈͊͑ͨ͜͏̷̖̫̻̰͓̣ ̾ͤ͊̈́ͦͣͮ͒̐͒ͭͨͥͨ͏̧̛͙͈͖͙̤͎̮͎͚̫͝ ̷̧̻͚̣͉̀͊̊͛͗̃̊̑̅͊ͫ̾͒ͦ̈́̚͢ ̢̩̖͉̦͖̰̝̦̩̠͙͇̞͉̟̥̍̊͐ͤͤ͋ͩ̈́͑ͯͧ̔ͯ̃͋̍̄̊ͯ͝ ́̅̔ͮ҉̵̡͙̞̠̹͖͖ͅ ̶̟͔̤͎ͮ͊͗ͥ̔̄̔ͤ̃͗̎͜ ̢̛͔͚̳̰̝̟̯̬̦̩͙̦̳̏̾̊̍͑ͣͫͣ̓͐̈́ͯ̄ ̷̞̲͖̙̰ͪ̊̓ͤͯͮ̂͋ͦ̓ͯ̆ͯ͑ͯͩ ̴͓̖̠̖̲͖̼͓ͦ̍̐̇̅ͬ̿͐̉̕͢͟ ̴̈́͗̃͗̈ͯ̒͠͏͔̘̖ ̶͆͑ͧ̀ͤͪ̑ͣͮ͐̿͟͏҉͇̻̦͚͖͉̙͔̯͓̺̹͈̥̤ ̴̡̼̥̼̟̤͇̭̪̤͈̘̥̤̼̪͉̘͓̼ͯͦͨ̆͑ͮ̂̈̚  
̵̴̷͚̜̣͔̈́͗ͤ̄̔ͤͦͥ̓̑̿̆̆͐ͫ̆͊̃͝ͅÇ̨͎̙͎̘̲͍̙͙̒ͭ͑̇̾̑ͫ́͠ ̸̢̜̰̰̭̙̫̫͆̌̅͗̿̾̇ͪ̄̿́ͤ̌ͫ̔̃ͩͭ̕O̸̩̘͕̬̼̼̼̭͉̤͎̎ͯ͆ͫ̇͘͟͢ ̵̞͈͚̖̣̘͖̖̣̩͕̩̦͈̳̤͇̈̈͛̊ͭ̀̆̂̎̃ͩ̓̑̔ͣ̋̚R̸ͤͥͫͪͪ͂̓ͨ̐ͥ̑̿̆͋͛̅͛̕͝҉̤̞̭͍͈ ͗͂͋̍̿͌̔̋̈́ͯͧ̏̏̂̚͘҉̴̲̲̳̞̩͕̙͓͓̯̫̤̦͈̺̣̬R͗ͦ̽͛̈́̅҉̷̢͕̞̝̣̟̙̟͚̠̬̳̜̣ ̶͙͍̝͎̯͙̞̯̋ͦͣͯ̑͆ͣ̇̾ͨͮ͗̒̏̓ͤ͆̚͢͠ͅŪ̵̴̮͎͙̰̠̼͖ͪ̑͒͡ ͦͮ̊̃̿̑̏̑́ͬ̋̌͌ͭ͂ͨ̎̋̅̕͢͏̻͍̪̤̤͎̗͇̖̪̩̯ͅP̃̒̈́̋ͦ̐ͤ̑͐̈͌̊ͯ͌҉̢͜͡͏̱͉͉͉̗͔̜͉̜̰̳̺̞͓ ̵̛̮̞͖͚̤͙̘̳̝̩ͬ̆̿̃͆̉̌̐T̡͎͚̭̳̥͐̉͆̚̚͟͢͢ ̶̛͔̟̥̗̉ͮ̿́͊͒͋ͮͤ̾̏ͥ̔͑̐͋̃̕͠E̷̸̢͍̲̬̝̘̩̬ͨ̉ͭ̑̌ͫ͒ͦ̉ͪ̾͌́ͦ̒ͩ ̵̡̧͇̟̺̥̬̳̦̥̗ͬͮ͛̐͌͊̃ͯ̾͑̄ͦ͜D̶̸̨̰͈̲̻̞̙̖̟̖͔͂ͣͥͫ͗̂͂̆͊͡ͅ ̷̧̠̰͔̯̾͑̃͆̓ͤͬ͋ͪ͌͗ͫ̅̃ͦ͐  
̀̅ͧͥ̂̊́͂̆ͤ̓ͬ̈́ͬ̿̽̑͏̟͚͙̩̣̼̘̗̙͕͝ ̵̘͇͓͚͓̺ͤ̈́͒̃ͭͥ̇͘̕͢ͅ ̵̢̝̱͔͉͈̥̭̭͔̤͇͍̻̘͎͇̠ͨ̊ͥ̆ͮ̈̂̿̒̉ͭͯ͂̑̽̊͟͢ͅͅ ̵̨̒͒̂ͦ̃͗ͥ̅̏́̈̀͜͏̛̬͔͈͕̞̟̮̻̜ ̢ͥ͌͛̓ͭͨ̓̀ͫ̃̂̈́͢҉̧̮̩̼̙͚̙̠͙̱ ̷͆ͩ̽͌͘͏̰̫̤̭̤ ̂ͤ̊̂ͩ̽ͭ̈́̅̍͘͏̢̘͓͔͓͖̭̥̱͍̺̣̖̩̼̹̺ͅ ̡̡̪̲͈͇̝͕̮̥͎̹̣̪̰̺̤̊͐̎̒ͫ̽̄̚̕͞ͅͅ ̢̪̮̦͂̾̄̊ͩ͌̏̍̾ͥ̏̔ͭͯ͗͟͜ͅ ̬͖̻͗ͮ̔ͫ̽̈́ͬ́͞͡ ̜̼̤̙̖͖̱̰͇̣̟̫̦̪̻͍͔̿ͮ̃ͪ̓͛̄̾̀͘͘͢͠ ̷̧̢͖̱̲̝̻̫̹̹͕͇̹͚̩̗̭̟͉̇̇ͪ͑ͦ̑͐͂͟͜ ̶̢͎̼̩͔͖̠̰͇̰̖̳̙͚͗̇ͫ͊͡͝ͅ ̴̷̴̨̮̦̦͕̳̟̲̱̋̆͊̈ͦͭ̐͒̅̾̽̏͌̚͢ ̶̴͎͔̞̣̹̮̯̥̞̽̎ͭͬͣ͠ͅ ̢̔̽͊̍ͧ͆͆̍ͫ̚͏̺͔̲͔͔̫̫̗̠̠̲͈͈̳̭̝͘ ̢͈̣͈̹̖̳ͬͣ͐ͦ̐̌͛ ̢͈̻̳̩̤̮̙̙͎̹̰͕͉̻̭͍̫̂͌̇ͭ͛ͤ͝ ̷̸̱̼̮̩͈̝̞͎̳̻̣̘̘̦̱͈ͨ̇̅ͯ̂ͅ ͗̓̈́ͬͨ̈̈ͥ̎͋́̋ͨ͑̋ͫ̕͞҉̩͚̺̝͎͍͎ ̴̸͕͈̮̯͚̜̲̖̹̜̪͔͉̫̼ͯ̑̌̎ͫ̓̂̕͞ ̺̤̜͙̝͓̥͖̳̹̲͉̣̼̙̈́̃̓̏͊ͪ͝ ̶̡̛͙̰̫͔̲̝̖̹̈̈̈̒̎̿ͬ̓̃̓̑̈́͘ ̶̶̴͉̟̰̥̼͖̗̻͍̬̫̞̠̭̰̤̎ͣͦ͊̈́͋̓͆ͤ̐̃̈́ͭͬ̓̏ͭ̚͢͠ ͯͤ̅ͪ͏̰̺͈̺͉͓̝͕̻͚̰̫̤͉͕͈͘͟ ̍̿͂ͮ̐͗ͫ͂̾̎̊̌̓ͥ͐̎̃̚͟͏̢̳͈̹͎̮͉͇̳̱̰͖̖̣͓͕̣ͅ ̧̛̞̪͇̺̗͇͙̥̬̟͎̮͚̘̟̼̂͌ͨͦ͐̏̈͊ͦ̂̑̂͝ ̶̟͇̙̳͈̻̞̩̭͇̍̋̏͋ͣͣ̔͋ͮͭ ̷̺̯͔̻͔̙̖̈͒͆ ̷͙̯̘͚̘͔ͭͣ̔ͭͩ͆͋̚͘͠ ̔̌̓ͭ̎̌͛̐́̋̊̇͂͜͜͟҉̴͓͓̼͓̮̙̰̭̙̬̦̙ͅ  
̵̧̼̼̩͆͊̑ͧ̎̇ͯͩ̍ͦ̅̀͢͟ ͨ͋̾̍̑̓̑ͮ̓̉ͯ͆ͤͣ͏̷̞͚̖͇̮̥͔͍̣͝ ̶̧ͦ̂̌̈̄̇ͫ͏͘҉͙̟̠̥͎̠͙̱̯̗ͅ ̎ͫ̓̍͏̢̨̛̹͔͚̟̫̼̦̩͎̱͚͚̭ͅ ̸͔̤̩̟͍̺̭͈ͣͬ͌̇ͣ͝  
̷̴̧̨ͫ̑͆̓̊̇̔͐͆͂ͥ͋͐͐ͬ͗͋̑ͯ҉͕͔̞̣̰͓̬͈̞͍̘̙̜C̜͎̥͙̘͔̝͂̇̒͢ ̋ͦͪ̈́̍͘̕͜͞͏̙͚̹̮͙͍̦̹̥͓̹̭̰͍̪̘ ̱̫̯͙̝̩͍̩̮͖͖̮̘̲̖̱͈ͤ̉̇ͤ͑̏ͣ̽͘͘͡O̶̧̺͔͙͚̲̮̹͔̘͉͚̘̹̲͓̪̬̎̉͛̅ͨ͐̑͘͘͠ ̷̧̖̰͕̘̯̩͇̫̃̽ͨͬ̌̒ͦͮͦ̑ͫ̿ͮ̅̈̓͋ͣ̂ ̋̑͒̐̅́͆͒̓͝҉͈͖̰̙͍̦̺̯R̢̖̯͓̪̹̮͇̭͓̘̹͉͇̭̣̻̘ͧ̌̏͐͐̚̕ͅ ̵̢́̈ͧ̈́ͣ͏̸̱̱̲̟̯̪͕̪̲̺̥͓͚̰̹̼͖͢ ̘̳̟̺̫̰͖͇͚̹͐̏̂͠R̴̡̨̪͓͈̻̖̭̗̘̭̪̩͎̜͉̘̝͋̍ͮ̎ͥ̽̓̄ͅ ̶͖̺͍͉̣̠̰̫͚̓ͫͫ̔̈ͫ̾̓̀̀̆͘͟ ̶ͤ̓̌̀̌̂̔҉̭͙̪̱̮̩̥̳͔̩̰̥̳͎͍͔̘͟͢Ų̵̸̫̝̺̺̤̩͎́̿ͬͫ͆ͦͭ̎͌̈ͩ̈́͛̂̔͆̍ͪ̈͞ ̰̜͚͎͇͙͚͓͖̝͈͚̙̪̺͈͎̩͎ͭ͋ͦ̃͛̍͡ ͮ̓̋͐̐̐̎̈͢͏͓̮̪̦̯̬͚̤̼͍͢͞P̷̶̬͍͓̙͖̜̘͚͎͙̣͇̳͉͔͆̆͌ͭͩ͟͢ ̴̠̮̦̞͙̗͈̺̣͓̯͔̽ͤ͂̈̎̊͆́̍ͦͩ̀̾̑ͮ͋̈́͟͟͝ ̶̳͉̱̙̠̣̼ͪͯͩ͂͑ͧ̀̆ͣ̎ͩ̓ͮ̕T̶͋͊ͬ̽̇͗̊̐͊̎̂̓̀͌ͥͫ҉͈̹̟̯̻̠ ̰͕̦̙͚̗̲̖͔̖̻̣̎̇͛ͮ͊ ̷̛̳̥̩̞̝̫̖̼̫͕͔̙̻͚̩̜͚̤ͨͫ͌̽̏ͦ̒͘̕͞E̵̗̠̗̳͙̳ͧ͗͌ͤ͠͞ ̛̣̳͈̲͍͒̈́̑̂̀͋ͬͦ̿̇͘ ̪̰̻̳͔̳͖̮̳̦̲̠̯͕̺̜̻̱̽ͪͭͪ̐͐͊̋ͫ̇͊͝Ḑ̟̮͙̞̲̥̺̻̥̫͍͖̹̪̼̖ͩ͌̃͆̔́ͮ͂ͭ̈ͫͪͨ̑ͦ͒̍̎ͅ  
̉͑̑̄̃ͨͫ͐̆҉̸̢̳̣̦͙͖̯̖͙̹̱͖̲̥͙̼̲  
̨̺̫̳͙̊ͥ̂ͤ͡  
̴͒̃ͬͬ͋͘̕͢҉̝͚̣̘͍͔̲͈̯͚̝̝̻͇̝̻̤  
̵̢̪̫͈̝͇͖͐̈̐̈͊̚C͑͌̿̓ͨ͛͊͏̷̛̻̰̰͇̣̟͍͇͇͇̺͕̫̝̱̣̝ͅ ̨̛̬̼̱̖͙̟̎ͮͧ͒ͭ̊̽͂̓̇̒̈ͧ͌ͬ͑ͣ͜͝ͅ ̙̱̳̺͇͎̦̩̭̎̉̊̂͒͑̃̔͋̎̌̄̔ͨͫͭ̓ͫ͡͡͡ ̸̵̡̜̬̘͍̘̯̭̳͙̱̅͂̾͗ͦͫͮͣͦͫͬͮͣ͛̏̓ͪ͠ͅ ̨͖̜̯͕͕͙̜̥̱̭̺͌̐̀͆̈́̓ͩ͞ͅỌ̶̷̬̙͔̠͊ͥͨ͆͆ͬ̉̍̋ͣͨ̇͒͊ͩ̓̚̚̕ ̨̪̻̞̜̽̄ͣ̒ͯ͑͟ ̟̰̯̥̼͚͙͇́͂͂͐͛́̓̂̆̾ͧ͑̓͆̓̕͜͝ ̵̵̷͔̱̦͙͕̱̱̖̜̟͉̜̹͇̉͑̍͒̋ͧ̃̌ͣ͐ͧ͢ ̸̖͙͍̳̮̖̪̯̘̥͓̫͑͊̅ͯ̅̔ͤͩ͛̃͛̑̽̓̆̅͐ͤ͜ͅR̈́͒ͦ̏̓͜͏͏̶̧̞̣̭̰̠̗͔̣ ̘͍̱̮̯̹̠͓̯̭͔͖͚͖̣͌̒ͫ̃̅̎̀ͭ͛͒̆ͯ̅̉̏͋̒͢͜ ̧̧͎̜͕̪̬̞̮̘̝͚̱͇̤̥͓͍̹ͬͯ̆̓̔ͮ ̴̝͚̮̯̰̹͖̤̟̙͍̰̱̙̩̝̤͊̅ͣ̉͛̾ͥ̌̓ͣ̀ͤ̿͟͞ ̨̢̛̰̳͓̘͓͍̗͎̥̪̩̼͇̲͍̳̜͚̆ͪ̀͂͊̅̐̎ͮ̚͘͡Ȓ̨̡̨̼͖͉̻̱͈͖̰͖̗̩̤̠̩̱̜ͤ̇̓̃̊͐ͭ̑ͯ͑̉ͨ̉ͦ̚̕͝ ̸̷̨͈̼̭̥̞̻̗̜̞̝̪͇̳̠͌͂͊ͫ̆̊ͮ̎̉͊ͥ̒̊ ͑ͯ͆̑̓ͣ̋̉ͥ̈ͧͨ̽̐̿̏͞҉̛̦̘͍̣͉̱̼͈̣͢͡ ̷̰̱͚͇̮̤̩̪͂̅́̑͒̿̔̎ͮͪͮ̀̈͂̚̕͢͡ ̫̤̲̞͙͖̗̻̱̣͓̌ͣ̽̈̄̿͛ͬ̒ͣ̚͟͞U̶̢̧̿͒̃̏͆ͦͩ̄͐͑ͪ̌̽͏̝̖̜̥̩͚̦̤͍͍ ͯ͂̄͋͗͆͏̴̴͖͚͈̮͢͠ ̡̩̻̯̲̱̳͕̮͈̹̹̓͐̌̓ͩͫ̉̽̈̌̆͢͟ͅ ̹̼̻̦̦͔̮ͣ̓̆̇ͧ͢͟ ̶̷̨͖̦̟̭̺̬̇̅̂ͪ͒̐ͦͧͪ͆̚͟͢P̡̹͔͖̪̀̒ͨ̑͋ͮ͆̃̔ͧͨͤ̎̌̀̌̓͘͢͡ ̨̠̭̹̘͍̪̙͎̰̰̬̣̦̊̋̂͋͘ͅ ̴̘͎̣͙̼̪͈͔͚̦͇͐ͮ̓̿̌͂̃͂̽̔̿̓̌̕͘ ̻̖̬̝͉ͦͣͯͣ̓̆̂͂̈́ͬ͐ͪ͒ͤ̏͝ ̷̅ͪ͛̊ͥ̽̂̃̈̐̐͋̃̓̉͐͏̱̪͕̣̪̳͙̖̩̼̙̝̩͓T̶̟͉̤̻̜̟̠͔̔̄̀͊͒͗͘͘͟ ̨̗̼͍͓̮̼̋̓̔͝ ̷̘̜͖͎̳͈͚͚̩̫̏ͮ̇̽͐ͪͣ́̅̾̚͟ ̡͆ͩ̀̑͐̅̐̽͒̈́̅ͧ̎̿̇̿ͫ͝͏͕̝̬̫̰͈̭̲̱͞ͅ ̷̮̳̩̲̬̈́ͨ̐͆̋̉͑͐̐ͥ̊ͥ̄́͂͛̓̕̕ͅE̸͚̤̟͉̥̼̳͓̫͙̦̖͍͕̝̔ͧ͂͋̓̕ ̶̶̧͓̹̞͙̞̯͙̹̯͉͉̬͎̹̗̬͔ͩͥ͑͆̎̓̊͋̌̑̓͂̓ͫͨͪ͒̔̕͜ͅͅ ̷̵̥̹̘̱͉̥͉͖͎͉̗̂̄́̈̓͗ͤ́ͮ̄̿̆̀ͦ͌̚̕ ̸̴̢̤͕͓͇̱̹̟̓ͨ̿ͮ̔̚͢ ͇̺̲̜͔͕̣̭̲̪̬̖̽̄̓̍ͭ̿̕͢D̷̛̫͙̤̭̮̼̜͎̩̝̭̜̹͖͇͕̲̬͛̉̃̌̋̀̐̃̀

 

 

 

Then it stops. His vision clears, and he can see Hank crouched over him, expression almost the same as it had been when Connor had been in the bath, and he's talking.

 

"-the fuck do I do? Sumo, get away! Do I call someone? I don't know who the fuck to call- Jesus can you even see? Connor-"

 

"I'm alright."

 

"Damn it, Connor. God fucking damn it, you keep sayin' that, and this shit keeps happening." Hank removes the hands from his face, and Connor briefly mourns the loss of contact. "Are you finally gonna tell me what the fuck is goin' on with you? Jesus, for a super smart machine you sure are fuckin' stupid."

 

"I take offence to that," Connor informs him, attempting to bring levity to the situation with humour. Hank evidently doesn't take it well, as he pushes himself up to his feet quite abruptly. It's then that Connor realises he's sprawled out on the floor, his legs atop the coffee table. He remembers the pain of it, but he doesn't remember falling.

 

_The pain of it_. That's something he can think now. He hates it.

 

"Are you gonna get off the floor?"

 

Connor considers it. There is still pain, faint but present, radiating from the point where his head impacted the stone fireplace, and the chances of it hurting more if he gets up are-

 

  
**8̴̹͔̩͉̫͚̪̺̘̞͍̟͚̜͒ͭ̚͝7̷̸̓ͬ̄͂̅̾ͣ̅̏ͬ̏̊͆̌͟͞҉̤͍̞͇̭̳̮̘̥͍̼͙̳̮̱̠̹͎%̡̢̨̛̮͉͉͇̖̥̹̓ͬ͗́̅**

 

  
He instinctively flinches back and away, his head slamming into the ground, which grants him another starburst of pain.

 

"Connor, what the fuck?" Hank kneels down by him again, hands making aborted movements towards him. He sounds concerned. Connor needs to rectify that.

 

"I'm experiencing some software errors," Connor states, calmly. "It's nothing to be worried about."

 

"Nothing to be worried- Connor, you almost fuckin' died last night, your LED was-"

 

"I went into safe mode due to overheating, I would have been fine." Connor is aware he's starting to sound indignant. Truthfully, he would prefer to be having this conversation when he is not lying on the ground, limbs akimbo.

 

"Bullshit! The water wouldn't have just turned off by itself, and that's another thing. Why the fuck was that water so hot? Do I have to babysit you now? Watch every fuckin' move you make?" Hank's shouting now. Connor strongly dislikes it when Hank shouts. Hank gets to his feet again. "You've been weird since we came off suspension. Was it seeing those androids? Did that really fucking damage you so greatly you can't even _function_ anymore?"

 

Connor stares up at him, eyes wide. He's not afraid, but the hurt that starts to bloom in his chest makes him wish that he was. Fear is simply an easier emotion to cope with. He pushes himself up into a sitting position, the pain worsens somewhat, but it's still manageable.

 

"Hank, I-"

 

"Don't, Connor," Hank mutters as he reaches down to grip Connor's arm, before hauling him up on to his feet. "Just- don't."

 

He says it anyway.

 

"I'm sorry." Connor looks down and away. He wrinkles his nose at what he can see soaked in to the carpet. "Hank, is that beer?"

 

Hank gives a longsuffering sigh and pulls him into a hug. It is greatly appreciated.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor: *does literally anything*  
> Hank: WHAT THE FUCK CONNOR WHY DID YOU DO THAT  
> Connor: *starts explaining*  
> Hank: SHUT THE FUCK UP NOBODY ASKED YOU
> 
>  
> 
> has connor suffered enough? maybe. is he gonna suffer more? of course.
> 
> also hank is a thirsty, angry bitch and i relate


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thanks again to everyone who read/commented/left kudos, it means a shit ton to me

  
Hank is standing in front of the door, blocking Connor's path, his arms crossed. "Hell no."

 

"Hank, you're being-"

 

"I don't give a fuck about what I'm being, you're not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell is wrong with you."

 

"We are going to be late," Connor points out. He checks his internal clock and-

 

 

**0̸̶̛ͫͭ̾ͬ̐ͮ͐ͮ̊̈́̊͌͆҉̼̖̟̺̬̮̙͖̥̭̲̟̠͓͟6͙͇͚̬̹̳̫̪̩̰͉̪͕͐̇̏̈̂̚͜͞͡͞͠:̵̩̮̻͓̪̳͓̮̠̘̪̟̺͇̖̝̂̌͒ͮ̃̋̂͒̃̾ͦͯ͑ͤ̽̚ͅ3̡̛̘̗̹͉̞͙̖͇͔͋̓͂ͥ̎ͩ̋ͨ͊̈́̏̋͝8̴̪͖̫̖̭̫̞͎̣̪͖͍̥̳̜̘̲̽͑͂̆̈̋̈̈́̉̏̔̋̈̎̃̏̈ͬ**

 

Connor flinches away automatically. His internal clock had been fine only an hour prior, why was it corrupted now? "See? You keep spazzing out."

 

"I told you, I'm experiencing some software errors." His anxiety is building again. If the corruption keeps getting worse, there's a chance it could end up affecting his entire interfacing system. "Now can we please leave?"

 

"You said you were gonna fix those," Hank says. Connor looks up at him. Causing the Lieutenant more stress is something he wants to avoid at all cost, and perhaps keeping him in the dark is doing exactly that. "So, Connor, why didn't you?"

 

"Because I can't." Connor looks in to Hank's face, he sees anger and suspicion, but also concern. He has to tell him. "Yesterday morning, I received an email from Detective Reed-"

 

"So this is Gavin's fault? That fucking prick, I knew he had something to do with it." Hank interrupts, and Connor doesn't need his investigative interface to tell him that Hank's stress just spiked.

 

"I doubt it. I received an email from him, and part of the email was corrupted. It's unlikely that it was intentional, his computer must have contracted the virus as a carrier. Since then, the corruption has spread to my interfacing systems and to my sensors. I'm not sure how, but I..." He pauses. Hank watches him expectantly. "I am now able to feel pain."

 

"Wait, so you found out you could feel pain, and you decided the best idea would be to boil yourself alive? Jesus Christ, Connor."

 

"It wasn't like that," Connor corrects quietly, unable to look at the Lieutenant anymore.

 

"Then what was it like?" Hank steps forward, and Connor has the strange urge to step back. He strongly dislikes arguing with Hank.

 

"I was overwhelmed. It was a new feeling and I didn't know how to process it, so I-"

 

"So you decided to almost kill yourself? That's a little hard to believe, Connor."

 

"If you would allow me to speak, Lieutenant, perhaps you would have a better understanding," he says, frustration and anxiety warring for dominance within him. Hank makes a gesture for him to proceed. "I was acting illogically. I was afraid, and I made a mistake. I'm sorry it caused you distress, but I have never had to deal with something like this before, I was unprepared."

 

"Jesus, Connor, why the fuck didn't you just tell me?"

 

"I didn't want to worry you, I thought I would be able to fix it myself." Hank pulls him in for a hug, the second time that morning. Connor was confused, hugging usually isn't something they indulge in. Not that Connor is complaining.

 

"You gotta stop doin' that shit, kid, because I'll worry about you either way," Hank says, his cheek pressed into the side of Connor's head. Despite the anxiety, despite the frustration, the wonderful fluttering feeling blooms in his chest. Hank pulls away. "So, how do we fix it?"

 

"I'm not sure. I think the corruption is affecting my system scans, so I can't even get a read on what it is."

 

"Do you even want to get it fixed?" Hank asks. Connor snaps his head up, startled by such a question. "Hey, I'm just saying. Pain is human, it's part of the experience."

 

Connor processes Hank's words for a moment. "The corruption has affected everything apart from my audiovisual, olfactory and tactile sensors. I can't scan, I can't access the internet internally, I can't do anything I was specifically designed to do. I can't do anything a typical model can do. Even my reflexes have dampened significantly, I am..."

 

"Human."

 

"I was going to say useless, but you seem to have hit the nail on the head."

 

"Fuck you," Hank mutters, shoving past him. "Fucking androids." He's likely to go and get dressed. Connor steps out of the newly accessible door and goes to wait for him in the car.

 

Ten minutes later, Hank gets in the drivers seat. "I thought I said you aren't going into work today."

 

Hank starts up the car and they pull out of the driveway. Connor gazes out of the window. "I'm my own person, now, you can't make demands like that anymore."

 

"Person or not, you should listen to the voice of reason."

 

"The voice of reason is usually drunk."

 

"Fuck you."

 

They fall into a comfortable silence, a few jibes thrown in here and there, and for the time it takes for them to drive to the station, the sense of normalcy overwhelms everything else.

 

When they arrive at the precinct, Connor can already tell he isn't going to get much work done. They sit at their respective desks, and Connor places his hand on the keyboard, retracting the skin so he can interface with the computer. Glitched data flashes into his vision, and he reels back forcefully, ripping his hand away from the computer.

 

"Shit, Connor, you okay?"

 

"I tried to access the terminal." Connor looks at the monitor mournfully. "Even that function has been rendered unusable."

 

"Looks like you're just gonna have to do it the normal way," Hank tells him, ever so helpfully. Connor barely manages to resist the urge to insult his intelligence.

 

After twenty minutes, Connor leaves his desk, ignoring the protests from Hank. Using a computer with a keyboard is highly inefficient, it irritates him. He decides it would simply be easier to find the physical documents themselves.

 

The paper archives are in the large basement beneath the precinct, a cavernous room filled with dusty shelves and cardboard boxes. The filing system is haphazard at best, so finding anything will be difficult and time-consuming. Connor gets started, thankful for the distraction.

 

He is about to start a non-urgent task list when a memory of the glitches pops up in his active recall. Frustration wells up inside of him, he can't make lists, he can't reconstruct incidents and he can't even repair himself. He is useless, to Hank and to the investigation.

 

The thought is dark and unexpected, hauntingly similar to the thoughts he had pre-deviation. It halts him in his movements as he lifts a box from one of the shelves in the dingy room. With a shake of his head, he takes the box to a small round table in the corner of the archive.

 

He's sifting through its contents, paper files and documents, when his audio sensors pick up the door swinging open. This is followed by footsteps that slowly grow louder, assuming that Hank has followed him, he frowns.

 

Just as he is about to mention the stalkerish qualities of the situation, Detective Reed saunters into view from behind one of the shelves. If Connor was human, he would sigh disdainfully at the sight.

 

"What're you doing down here, tin-can?" Reed sneers, approaching the table. Something in his expression has Connor instinctively shifting his position slightly so that the table is between him and the detective. "Your master get sick of looking at you?"

 

"I came down to retrieve some files that aren't on the electronic system," Connor answers, ignoring the latter question, attempting valiantly to keep the derision from his voice. "Is there something you need?"

 

Detective Reed looks him up and down in a way that has Connor feeling distinctly on edge. The feeling similar to the one he felt at the Eden Club. Fight or flight, his recall provides. "Yeah, actually." Reed starts to circle around the table towards him, and Connor refuses to meet his gaze. "I want you to do something for me."

 

"I'm busy right now, but if you-" Connor is cut off as he's shoved sharply into the shelves behind him. Reed crowds into his space, pinning him to the metal, his hands circling Connor's upper arms and gripping tightly. The fact that Connor could break his hold quite easily does nothing to quell the fear rising in his chest. "Detective-!"

 

"I've been hearing some rumours about your boyfriend," Reed informs him, tone low and dark, his head craned upwards so that their noses almost meet. "Something about illegal gambling. Would be a shame if Fowler somehow caught wind of it."

 

The fear bursts into panic. Hank would lose his job, Hank would spiral into depression again. "You don't have any evidence." Connor's voice remains steady, despite the gut-wrenching anxiety coursing through him.

 

"You think it would be hard to find any?" Reed laughs, a hateful sound. He presses closer to Connor, plastering himself to him. Detective Reed is erect. A deluge of revulsion makes his vision swim, corrupted errors sap him of his balance, of his strength. He can't move away. "I'm sure even he could follow the trail."

 

Connor knows it's true. Hank has never been careful with his activities. A fresh wave of panic tears through him. "Why are you doing this?" Connor demands. "Why not just go straight to Captain Fowler?"

 

"I was going to, after what happened in the evidence locker, get Hank back for what his piece of shit machine did to me." The grip on Connor's arms tighten. "But then I heard you were coming back and I realised, why throw away such a good opportunity?"

 

His arms are released, and for a blindingly irrational moment Connor thinks he might be free, but then hands are undoing his belt. He clenches his eyes shut. "What do you even have down here?" Reed asks, but Connor stays silent.

 

Reed undoes his fly and tears the zip down, hands shoving the fabric of his dress pants out of the way. "Shit, why the fuck aren't you wearing underwear?" Reed's tone is disbelieving, but his voice sounds oddly strained. He pulls out Connor's flaccid penis and strokes it a few times. He can feel his body responding automatically, as it would do to any sexual stimulus no matter the situation, a design feature Connor never bothered to deactivate. And now he can't. His model was specifically designed to integrate seamlessly in to human society, and as sex is such a big part of it, it made sense to him that he was given such capabilities. Reed's voice is a harsh whisper when he next speaks. "Looks so fucking real."

 

He could break away, he could leave- no. He has to do this, for Hank. His now erect penis is let go, but the relief doesn't last long as the sounds of Reed unbuckling himself fill the empty room.

 

Reed grabs his wrist and brings his right hand into make contact with the large bulge in his underwear. Connor almost immediately rips his hand away. Vile. This is vile. "Oh, no. You're not gonna get to just stand there," Reed snarls in his ear as he presses closer. Connor hears fabric shifting, and when his hand is guided back to the front of the detectives pants, his palm connects with hot flesh.

 

Connor can't hold back the shudder of pure revulsion that goes through him. Reed's other hand snakes it's way up his torso to his neck. "Come on," Reed snaps, impatient. A vice-like hold tightens around Connor's throat, the pressure blocking his airway.

 

Connor wraps his fingers around the pulsing heat of Reed's penis, and for some reason, being unable to breathe starts to hurt. Androids don't have to breathe, it's merely an aesthetic choice, so there is no logical reason for the way his chest is heaving, his body desperately attempting to draw air into lungs that don't exist. His free hand shoots up to clutch Reed's wrist, glitched, irrational instructions making him sluggish, weak, pathetic.

 

  
**B̢̭͇̮̠̹̎̄͘͢R̨̗̮̯͇͈͚̲͗͌͂̅̒͂̽͜ͅĒ̱̭͇̹̰͊͞A̱ͫͨͪ̊́̓̎T̨̨͇͇̪͈̫̳͈̍̓̈́̚͢H̗ͧ̄̔͆͊͘                                           ̨̥̝̱̰͍̫͖̰͗̊͋̽ͮ ͪ͂͏̖̜ ̶̡̘̙̜̳̏͐͂̋͗̈́̓̉̚ ̏ͣͣ̓͆͗҉̳̭̭͔̫̜̠̣͘ͅ ̅ͪ̈́͊ͮ͘҉̤͍̝ ̞̝̯̟ͤͦ̕ ̛͈̜ͯ̃ͫ͂̾͆͘̕ ̰̯̠̪̥̺̰̻̏̄ͣͣͫ̓̏ͦ͗̕ ̸̯͚͔̺̲̤̺̜̯͑ ̴̛͕̦͍̤̺ͤ̓̉ͬ̃ ͇̫̣͓̲̓͌ͭ̏͡ͅ ̶̻̝̖̹͖ͤͤ̍͝ ͔̙̙̙͗ͩͩ̿B̵ͬ͗ͥ̎̈́̽̏ͥ͏͎R̴̘͚̫̪͇͋̈́́̿̊͊ͣ͘͝E̵̵̯͔̙̰̿͊̀͒̍A̱̹͙̦͔̤ͤ̇͌̃͋T̢̒͏̺̞͎̜͖̙͖̗ͅH͒ͬͣ̇͑̏̑̚҉͎̰͙͚̣̺**  
**͎̤͚̫̭͙̘ͦ̾̓͂̇̑̂ͤ͟͞b̭͓̫̤̮̻͂͂͛̊͐ͅͅr̸̛̝̗̖͙̣̬͇̺ͪ͜E̴̮̝̱̽̓͋̐̈͆͊̚A̤̟̞̥̭̙̩ͧ̔͑̍̌T̮̥̜͎̖̒H̡̥̲̐́͐ͫ̏̚ ̶̠̭͎̖͌ͫ̒ ͙͙̻͙̈́̾̔͊ͨͪ͗ͫ͗͡͡B̶̨̠͔̩͚̥̅̇́R̨͍͆͂ͪ͝E͎͙̰͉̠̯͋ͭ̈̆ͫͣ̇̉͘ ̷̪̤̝̫͎̥͕̦̓͋Å̸̼͉̺̞̦̫͙͝T̸̍ͮͬ͒͂̈̒ͭ͟͏̩͈͖͙̘H̫̻̳̠͖͎̱ͪ̇̂ͫ̕ ̰͙̫̱ͣͧB͍̪̰͓͎̣͂ͭͦ͊ͧ͒̊ ̥̤̳̼̫̩̱̣̓̿̅ͯ͂͟͡R͔̝̩̤̱̮̍͘e̮̯͐̒͌ͩ͗͆͐̓ ̖ͦ̍ͩ̇ͮ̑̉̒͞a̖͓͖̪͛̌ͨͯ̔ ̸͋͒̎̎ͭͭ̋҉͖̞̼̟͇̼T̷̵̓̉ͤ͊̚͏̪͎͉͎̳̖̹̟Ḩ̴͕͇̣̭̹͚̗̱ͣͣ͊̀̍̚͠ ̷̵̦ͮͤ͛ͨ̒͡**  
**B̹̰̹̹̟̝ͮ̊̅̏̎͌̋͡R̵͎̤̋̌̋ͪ̂̌̆ ̨͚͇̘͙̏ͯ͗͛Ę̻̭̯̣͎̼̇͑̄̈ͯ̓͝͠ ̵̥̗̜̘̗̺͓̹̄̋̄͂ͦ͑A͇̩͇͚͐ͤ̌̑̈́͐͘ ̶̄ͦ҉̻̬̫̱̝̲T̡̳̩̬͔͚̗͊ͪ͑ͅH**  
**B̃̿҉̷̘̰̝R̢̢͔̠͛ͧ́́ͅĘ͙̭ͧ͋̀̅͊̉ͩẠ̹ͧ͑͆͂̇̏̓͊̕͟ͅT̲͈͖̙̭͖̦̓ͥ͟H̗̤̻ͤ̎**  
**B̰͇͖͓̱͚͚̬ͣͥͤͮ͐̂͊͆͘͢ ̷̝̥͔̰̜̮̹͓̈ͥͦ̿͘͡R̴̷̵̝̞͉̗̯ͫ̉ ̢̣̰͓͐̔̉ͥͅě͕͚̰̠͖͙̦̎͆̆̓́̕ ̛̮̹̀͊̈ͫ͜a̵̧͕̦͊ͧ̀̋͂ͥͨ ̢̞͖̬̮̑̈ͤ͗ͨT͕̭͐ͮ̋̒̇͋̓ ̣͖̓͗̔͗ͫͬ̈́͠͞ḥ̹̊ͅͅ**

  
Reed loosens his grip somewhat, and Connor sucks in huge gasps of air that he doesn't need, but the pain washes away almost immediately. "Fucking. Move."

 

Connor tries to swallow down his repulsion and starts to tug on the flesh, the smooth skin of his hand gliding easily. The grip on his throat tightens again, but he keeps his hand moving. The sooner Reed achieves his climax, the better. He twists his hand on an up-stroke, drawing whatever he can from what he remembers of his pleasure protocols. The detective bucks up into his hand in response.

 

"Oh, fuck yes." Reed lets out a detestable moan as Connor's chest begins to heave again. "Didn't even know you pieces of shit needed to breathe." Connor wants to correct him, to take that power from him, but the words can't form in his closed throat.

 

"Look at you, crying. It's not like I'm fucking raping you. God, you're pathetic." Connor feels Reed's tongue swipe across his cheek. "Even if I were, this is what you were made for. To serve humans."

 

Connor hadn't even realised he was crying. He's never cried before. His arm is on auto-pilot now, twisting, and tugging, and squeezing the pulsing flesh in his hand. It's disgusting. The detective lets him breathe for a few moments before choking him again.

 

And then Reed is yanking his collar down, biting into his neck below where his hand is squeezing him, teeth sinking into the synthetic skin. The pain manages to tear a strangled cry from his lips. "Wait, you can feel that?" Reed asks, delighted.

 

"Well, aren't you special." The detective licks away the tears from his other cheek. "Open your eyes."

 

And because it's Hank he's doing this for, he obeys. Immediate regret sends another shudder through him. Reed is grinning lecherously at him, a very faint sheen of sweat coats his forehead. Dilated pupils peeking from hooded lids convey his arousal. There's thirium, Connor's thirium, on his lips. Connor's mouth falls open in a fruitless attempt to draw breath. The detective's eyes flick down to his mouth, and Connor freezes. If Detective Reed kisses him- no, he can't withstand such a violation-

 

 

**Ṣ̸͖̭̻̬̳͙͓̥̮̺̬̈́ͫͣ͌͘Ţ̶͙̖̝͔̟͚̟̫̭͍̰̘̘̇̿́͌̇͒ͪ͒̐ͧ͡R̛̗̖̳͚͔̲̯̜̟̦̹̰̞ͨͮ͛͗̆̓̍̚̕͝É̢̋͌̇͊͐ͬ̒͝͏͢͏͕̜̬̺̯S̢̘̱̹̯̯͍̘͖̼͈̥̱̜̹̈ͩ̔̆̃̏͆ͥ͛̂̆̈̽͑͒̒ͭͥ̒͘͘͟͠ͅS̷̷͕̜̫̭̞͈̙͉̠̺̲̻̭̝͕͇̈ͧ́ͯ͒̾ͯͭ̑͠:̛̤͈͈̲̯͈̙̩̒͗̇̇̑̿̌ͭ͠ ̡͖̩̺̭̬̬͓͙͕̦̘̣̊̈͌̎͑͛9̸̦̬̣̖̺̐̇͗͌̒ͦ͑̈́̿̕͞5̛͇̬͖̲̻̰̦̎̌̒̓͌̐̅ͫ͋͛ͣ̅͜ͅ%̛̱̼͖̭̳͕͎̦͉͈̫͕̬͍͎͆̇͒̉ͦ̍̈́͆͌̄͜ ^**

 

 

"Connor? You down here?" Hank yells from the other side of the basement. Connor almost cries out in relief. Hank is here. Hank will stop this. He won't have to kiss Detective Reed.

 

"Fuck," Reed hisses, and the hand is gone from his throat. Connor gasps for breath once again, trying to ignore the sound of Reed shoving himself back into his pants and buckling himself up. "If you fucking tell anyone, I'll go straight to Fowler."

 

Then Reed is walking brusquely away from him. As if nothing had transpired.

 

"Connor?" Hank's voice is closer this time, and Connor barely has the wherewithal to insert his once again flaccid penis back into his trousers. He does his fly and buckles his belt, straightening his collar and tie just as Hank to appears from the exact place as Reed a few minutes prior. Was it only a few minutes? He had no way of knowing. "Where the fuck have you been? I've been lookin' for you everywhere."

 

"I was- I was retrieving a document," Connor explains, voice stilted and quiet even to his own ears. He gestures to the box on the table, and Hank eyes it suspiciously. He can feel thirium trickling from the bite under his shirt.

 

"You alright?" Hank asks him, and Connor would likely have felt annoyed to be asked again if he weren't feeling so utterly disgusted with himself, so unclean.

 

"I'm fine, Lieutenant," Connor gives in response, Reed's threat booming in his active memory recall. "As always."

 

"Okay, well, there's been another fuckin' triple homicide." Hank turns and starts walking back out of the archives. "Fowler wants us to check it out, doubt there'll be anything to find, though, seeing as- hey, you coming?" Hank looks at him over his shoulder.

 

Connor isn't sure he can walk. He has no way of checking the functionality of his legs. He tries anyway, and finds them steady enough to carry his weight. Hank continues on. "It'll probably be like the last two times, three bodies and fuck all else. These guys really fuckin' know what they're doing. I'm surprised the media hasn't..."

 

Hank rambles, but Connor can't bring himself to listen. His hand feels so unclean, dirty, he needs to get it clean, to purge this feeling from his skin. It's as though he can still feel Detective Reed in his hold, as though he were still performing the degrading act.

 

Connor puts his hands together in front of him and pinches the synthetic skin of the offending hand. The pain of it lessens the itch of _unclean dirty pathetic useless_. He pinches harder. It helps, briefly, but he needs to find something stronger. He needs to get clean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, Connor
> 
> Connor deserves happiness, but it's only gonna get worse
> 
> Also, sorry if you were expecting the smut to be a little more... smutty, I love non/con smut as much as the next fucked up individual but for this story, I wanted to do my best at realism


	4. Chapter 4

Hank had fucking known going to the scene would be pointless, but they had gone anyway, and now they're sat at their desks at late o'clock after having found absolutely fucking nothing. Three android bodies, no DNA evidence, no witnesses and of course, no CCTV of the exact area. What had they been expecting?

 

God, he's tired. He's tired of serial killers, tired of Gavin's stupid fucking face, tired of the way Connor won't fucking talk to him. Usually, he wouldn't push, a man's got to have his own space, but after last night, he just can't shake the suspicion that there's something else going on.

 

The light from his monitor is starting to hurt, he's been staring at it for an hour, scouring through CCTV footage from a gas station near the scene. Not that he thinks he's actually going to find anything, but it's procedure, what can he do.

 

He looks over at Connor, who is sat at his own desk, staring off into space. He wants to ask what the androids thinking about, but there's no way in hell that he'd get an actual answer. Instead, he tries a question about the case. "Do you think the victims have the same shit you have?"

 

With a start, Connor's LED cycles yellow. He's processing the question and then- his face becomes forcibly blank. Definitely hiding something. "It's possible, the corruption is easily transferable." He looks away. "We still don't understand their motive. Every single victim was either a current, or former sex worker, but they're all androids. I can't decide whether they believe they're pro-android, or anti-android"

 

"Could be a religious thing," Hank offers. "A couple nutjobs thinkin' they're doing 'God's work' or some bullshit."

 

"I have reason to believe that there is an android involved, and to my knowledge, androids have no religion."

 

"What about rA9?"

 

Connor's eyebrows furrow, and it's the most emotion Hank's seen on his face since this morning. "I hadn't considered that possibility."

 

"Wow, got one up on you for once."

 

"What the fuck are you two doing here?" Gavin calls out as he enters the bullpen, and Hank is too tired to stifle his groan of contempt. Hank runs a hand over his face, rubbing his tired eyes. Connor has stiffened significantly, and the image of him stiff like that, crumpled in a heap at the bottom of his tub flashes to the forefront of his mind. God, he needs a drink. "Would have thought you would have gone home by now, so you could fuck your little plastic pet."

 

"Goodnight, Gavin," Hank responds, calmly, as he shoves himself to his feet. He's dealt with Gavin's shit for too long to let it affect him now. "Connor, c'mon."

 

Connor doesn't move, he's stock still, eyes fixed on Reed. "Connor! You wanna stay here all night, or what?" That gets him moving.

 

"See you tomorrow," Gavin sneers as they walk past him, but Hank's pretty sure that's just his default expression.

The drive back is quiet, which isn't that unusual. He and Connor usually fall into a companionable silence when they drive, but this silence feels different, as though the air is filled with things unsaid. God, when did everything become so complicated?

 

Hank glances over at the passenger seat, Connor is staring out of the window, face blank, hands clenched tightly together in his lap. "So, Connor, how're you, uh, holding up? You know, with all the pain shit," Hank asks, wincing at how awkward he sounds. Well, he never claimed he was ever any good at this emotion shit.

 

"I'm fine, Lieutenant," Connor says, blandly.

 

"Connor," Hank warns, glancing at him.

 

"Detective Reed... confronted me again this morning."

 

Hank's eye twitches, a spike of anger shoots up his spine. "When you were in the archives?"

 

Connor nods. Hank tightens his grip on the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. "Shit. I knew I shouldn't have let you go off on your own. That fucking cocksucker." He flips off a car that pulls sharply out in front of them. "What did he do?"

 

"He..." Connor pauses, causing Hank to look over. It must just be a trick of the light or the vibration of the engine, but he swears he can see the android shaking. "He made some empty threats. That's all."

 

"Want me to kick his ass?" Hank offers. He's disappointed when Connor fervently shakes his head. An ambulance whizzes past them, sirens blaring. "Oh, shit, yeah. I was gonna ask, couldn't you get fixed up at one of those android hospitals? I could take you to one now, if-"

 

"No!" Connor exclaims, a hand shooting up to press against his own throat, eyes wide. Okay. Weird. "No."

 

"Alright, it's just because you said you wanted-"

 

"I changed my mind," Connor says, calmer now, and his hand drops down to his lap again.

 

Hank desperately wants to ask why the fuck he's acting so strangely, but he knows he won't get an answer without a fight, so he lets it go. "Decide you wanted to be human after all, huh?"

 

Connor doesn't respond. Hank doesn't push it.

 

  
**-RK800-**

 

 

  
When they arrive home, Connor can't think. He gets out of the car, walks through the front door, and stands by the kitchen table on autopilot. His hand is there, existing, nothing physically wrong with it, but he can't stop focusing on it. It's there and it touched...

 

He needs that feeling off of his skin, out of his mind, out of his memory. Hank is saying something to him but he can't hear it, there's a buzzing filling his head, an itch. Words that aren't his, but are at the same time. _Unclean dirty pathetic useless. Unclean dirty pathetic useless. Unclean dirty pathetic useless. unclean dirty pathetic useless unclean dirty pathetic useless unclean dirty pathetic useless unclean dirty pathetic useless unclean dirty pathetic useless unclean dirty pathetic useless unclean dirty pathetic useless unclean dirty pathetic useless unclean dirty pathetic uselessuncleanpatheticuselessuncleandirtypatheticuselessuncleandirtypatheticuselessuncleandirty patheticuselessuncleandirtypatheticuselessuncleandirtypatheticuselessuncleandirty patheticuselessuncleandirtypatheticuselessuncleandirtypatheticuselessuncleandirty patheticuselessuncleandirtypatheticuselessuncleandirty patheticuselessuncleandirty patheticuselessuncleandirtypatheticuselessuncleandirtypatheticuseless_

 

The words start to fill his vision, corrupted, and damaged, and _unclean, and dirty, and pathetic, and useless._

 

p̸̙̮̲͇a̭̺t͕̮̪h͚̪̘̳̦̝e̲͈̙̮̟͝t͖̫̜̮̳̰͈į̥̦̭̣c̭̠̰͔̲͜u͉͎̫̼͟s̷̙e͞l̢͙̩e͠s̫̱s̪̺̪͓̯u͍̹͓n̪ͅc͎l̦e̱̟̝̫ͅa̺̙͚̜̘̻n̥̙̣ḓ̣̱i̼̦̬̟ͅr͚͔͓͡t̡y͖p̛̗̙̰͕̪͇͕a͈̻̭̩̪͘ț̰͈͍͞h̷͍͙̻͚̤ḛ̯͈͜ț̜̱i͎̦̗̟̣c̢͚us̤͎̘̭̞e̼̬̪͇͉͘ḷ̛e̸̜ṣ̵͎̩̹s̱u̸̳̥ͅn̲̬̩͜c̖̱̤̣l̨e̠̖̫̘͢a̳̠̖ͅnd̲̟̩i̩̹͉̲̤̫̼r͙̼͝ͅͅt̵̳̟͓y̭̦̬p̰a̳̱t̬̩̱͚̘h̶̲͎͇̼ȩ̟̥ti̧c̩͎̲̲ṷ̷̻̯͕̲̞ͅs̭͔̖̫e͏̟̯̟̤͍̻le͓s̭̖̙̦̟͍̕s̜͕̗̼u̷̪͉̤̤n̠͇c̻̱̩̯̞̫̯͡l͖̭̤̖̥͠e͚a̞̠̠n̬̟͞d̗͟i̛̞̱̼r͝t̨̹y̢͚̜̞̰̪ͅ ̗̫̲p̡ą̭t͍ḫ͖e̩̲̦t̳̯͡i̶c̢͓̰u̼̮̟̦s̯̰̜̙̯͕e̩͇̩̝͎ḷ͡ͅe̩̩̬̥̱͉͞s̤̗̤̬̰̫̪͟su̩͉͎̭̘̝̺n̥͈c͖ḽ͝ḛ̸̩̫a̘n҉̺d̦͈i̩̟r̴̼̠̟̩̣ṱ͚̭̩͞y͎̫̣̟p̻̥̞͇̰̝͡a̯t̖̹̝̭̲͙h̴e̶ͅt͈̠̺̤̱̣͖i̙̹̠̺͚c̹̰̜̝ụs̱̦e̖̩͎̘l͙͞e͢s̥͇͕s̢̝̝̥̙ṵ̞͇͜nc͔l̩̭̖̟̗ͅea̤̩̞̼n̼̩͉di̡̭̰̭ͅr̙͕̬͎͟t̢̰̳̮̥̯y̳̺̭̱̞p̨͖a̤̳͚͇͢t̗̠̗h͔͔̣̫̹e̸̹̮t̩̪͉͘i͉̳̤̳̜͘c̠̹͕u̵̪̩͓̯se̝̖̩̬̹̣ͅl̺͉e̸ș̻̖s̥̤͙̖͈ų̩̭̲̬n͕̘̭̠̥̹͘c̡̦̲̼l̛̲͖̳e̞͓̘̟͎a̡͎̤̬̗̹̖̺n͜d͏͕͕͚į̦̳̜̼̗̤͔r͉t̜͞y̖͞ ͏̹̩̮̪͎̹̭p̗͕̙̪ąṯ̬̜̻̟͔h̰̯̻͇e͏̰̼̳̩̫̺̘t̙̞̘̫̼̼i͓͉̹̬̬̲̺c̹u̪se̬͎̗͖̪̻͖͢le̩̭̟̳s͓̻̗̩͇̺̳s̰̹͟u̹͕̼̥n̞̖̯͇͇͈͞cl̘̙͝e̶͙̥̺a̡n͙͕̪͇d̮̳͖̞̝͙i̥͖ͅͅṟ̷̝̥t̶̗̭̥̼y̺̲͙̞̦̰͟p͉͚̲͙̙͇̤a̦ṯ͍̯̠h͖͓͙̩e͍t̹̟̥̺i̲̬̦͖̦c̤̲̯̗̣u̶̗͉s̢̘e͏͙̰̗̘̞l̝͇͎̜͖͕e̡̪̠͍̩̖s̠͈͓s̛ų̙̝̤n͔c̺̠l̮̥̝̕e҉a͚̙̼̝n̳̣̠̲d̲̞̝͎̳͎i̜̞ͅr̨̝̫̝ṭ̘̭̲̗̥̥y̡͎̗͇p̞̖͉͉̗a͕̺̙̘͚̪t͢h̪̦̤͚e҉̮͙t̹̯̩̭i͙̳̳͈̖͘cu̟͖̯̮͚̟̘s̼̦̤͍̖͔̳eļ͓̫͍e̶̙͍̥̖s̺̩̫͓͔s̙̤̠̪u̧̝̟̹̖̺n̫̩̝̮͍c͞l̙̻̲ę̤̩͎̝a̦͕̰̝͓ņ̗d̳̰̯̗͟i̜͎̩͖ͅrt̡͓̤͍y͏̝͈̳̳̺̥͚ ̼͢p̹̮a̡̰͇̥͖̼͙t̛̰͙̳͉̯͚̼h̰̮̺̺e͖̭̺͎̫͝ͅt̵͚̮͍̗̲̪i̜c̴̮̦̥u̘͖͙̳͓͓̰̕s̯͈̬̲e҉̳̤̜̱l̡̝̗̪̣̜e̱̟͇̫̪ss̲̜͉̙͔͎͟u̴͚͔̣͔n̢̳̩͉̦̖c̳̝͠l̯͚͖͡ͅe̱̞̲͡a̜̭̖̻̯̣͞ͅn̙̦̥̻͎̺̠͝d̮i͍r͈̮̬̰̭t͇͚̠̯͙̹̰y͇̳̟̦̲̖̥p̨͓a̰̝t̘͙̫h͖̫̝͕̝͢e̻͉͍̠̠t̘̳̮̰i̩̜̻̮̳ͅͅc͚̬u͚͍̟͔̭̰̥ṣ̳̣̪̗͔͈e̺̯̼͚ͅl͝e̜̗s̯̦̟̭͇͟ͅs̪͕͚͙̳̦̩ṷ̴͈̻ͅn͚̼̻̱͕c̸̞͍̜̘̮̘͇le̮͓̲͍͘a̰̣͈̥͡n̲͔̼͎͖̫͎d̢̻̻̲͕̰͚ir͓̩̮̬̞͎t҉y͉̘ͅ ̖̠̫͠p̟a̲t̢̘͚̼̘̳̗h̜͚̣̕e̵̟̣ț̺̕i҉̜c̘̼u͈̹͠s҉e͎̮l͙͞e̤s͓̝͚͖ṣ̺̬u̪n̵̩c͕̣̼̭l̬̟͜e̛͖̳a̭n̜͈̤d̥̠̣̟i̯͓̺͎r͉̪̟t̹̗y͎̫͘ ̭̜̬̹̘̘ͅp̨̗a͇̱̖͟t͚͈̳̙̰̖̥͘h͎̺͉̖̬͝ͅe̳t̳̫͇ͅi̗͙̜͓̹̣͈c̢u͇͘s͏̫̙̮̗͔̘e͓̺̲̰͉l͔͓͇e̼͔̪̗͙̪s̺̰̫ͅs̴̪͇̩͚̘͔̥u̥͓̻̪͞n͎͓̖̹̯͠c͉̮͉͔̲̪l͓̳̥͕̻̳͢ͅe̶̬͖͍͎̖͉an̢͓d͏̪̦̱i̸͉̹̣̣̗̝r̜̹͚t̴̺͚̖y̰̺̬͔p͎͉̫̖a̫̺͙͇͍t̝͉͕̩̥h̥̲͖̻e̢͔̥̰t͕̗̩͖i̼͕͔c͔̼̳̪̟͕u̢̼s̤̪͉̞͈̺ḛ̷̺͔͔̻̝ͅle̲̱͙̙͓̝̞s̜̗s̡͈̬̣u̶͚̥̭̼̤n͔͍̞̜̳̭͞c̪̲̠ḷ̤̞̝̞ͅḙ͍a͎n̼̙̦̙̩d̞͍̫i͠r̟̭̯͍t̶y̹̯̖͓̺p̷̼͍̗̹̰̥a̬̘͔̻͖ͅt͉͕̣̰̼̯ḩ̗͍̼͎̤̫e̙͖̞t͓i͔c͝u̜̗̳͈̗̥s̪͈̝̗̼e̡͓̠̱l҉e͓͙͍͇͓̕s͜s  
̩̳͙̠̙̜͠ͅp̝̳̖a̛th̲̳͙̬̺̮ͅe͎ͅti̸͎̠̠̮̳̪c̝u͙̱̱̙͚̩s̨͉̠̻e̩̞̬͘le̝̪̖̦͠s̸̙̘̟̜͙̘s̻̣̪͚̗̰͡u̱͙̣͘n̜̹̲͜c̰͉͕̤͢l͙̥̞͇͉͕͎e̠̼̮̺̝̘̳an̨͙̩̥͓͓d͙̥̘͡i̝̣̪̪r̷̙̗t̖̝̹̟͟ͅͅy̩̦̮͙̳̥p̢̥̞̺͚a͓̙t̙̪̙̜͠he̟t͍͍̥̖͇i̪̻͉̥̖c̶̲̝͙̯͔̖ͅṷ̰̹̣̭̹s͖̲̘̺̩̬el̰es̳̹̞͈̳̜s̼̹͇̠u̦̭͉͈̰n̻̣̫c̣̣l̯͕e̜̘͈̦ḁ̜̙̲͍̤n̟̖̫̗͇̙d͕̖̥͢ͅi̜̭͞r͙̬̣̪͕t̛y̜p̞̗̣̲͇̼a̸͈̝̙͖̩t̢̳h͙̳͈̟̰͎e̵̗̳̱̳t͕̻͚͕͡i̸c̸̜͎̥͙us̲̹͇͚͎̩̻e̵̻͇̩̪͓͙̤ļ͈͍e̸̫̞͚̳̟̫̲s҉̹̬͙̣̺͈s͔͕͓̱͈͉̼u̧n̺͚̠c̤̺̬̬̜̣ḽ̻̟̙ẹ̻̫̠̦̞͇a̫̮̠͚̲̞n҉̜̖d̻̳i͙̟r̛̲͉̘̠̬ͅt͙̱y̥p̩̖̮̗̟͙̳͜a̫̖̰̥̘̼̜t҉̬̩͈͍ͅh̭e̳͙̣̠̦t͔̭͇̼͘i̮̮̳̰ͅc̬̗u̹̝̖s̭͕̺͔ͅe͍͙̯̮̠͘l͕̱͚̩̝̲̟e̥͉̞s̻̺̥͘ͅs҉̤̺u̙̦̝͚̣̫n̨̯͖͙̠̼c̘͔l̼̲̳̻̗̱e̘̫̟̭͉a̮̼n̺̳̖̫d̻i̫̲̱̼̝̠̟r̴̗̠͇͈̫̥̬t̴̗͖̠̙y̯͚͇̭͙̦p̡̹̟͕̞a̫͍̞̲͘țh̖̺͓e̼̹̳t͉̫i͕͇c̺̰̕u͎̖̤̘͎͇̫͘s͉͔̤e̮̬̥͔̝̗l̙̻͕ͅe̴s̸͍͚̗̳̤s͈̼̙̕u̠͉̥̯̜̣̭n̶̩̣͖̱̻̬c͈͢l̦̗̙͙̩̖̖͘e̴̦͇̠͔a̙͈͞n̤̝͍̬̹͎̭ḑ̤͙̱i̕r̮̤̹͕̣͖t̻̹̖͜y҉̙̖̮̼͉p̴͎͈a҉̮͕̝̻t̶h̸̹̻̜̜͈̪̼e̫̝̲̻̬͙̝͠t҉͍̫̼̳̩i̦͖͎̣͉c̛ṷ̡̣̹̦ṣ̟̪̯̣̮̭e̛͉̭̼̗͇̤l̺̗͍̹̹̜e͈̰͕̪͎͡s̬̖͓͔͉͞ͅs̥͙̱͓̼un̴c̗͈̪͍͉̦ͅl҉̱e͚̱a̳͈͔̙̟ͅṉ͕͟d̳i̬͓̫̟͟r̮͇̪̺t̩̬͈̟͘y̫̹͕̠̹͞ͅ p̨͔̞͕͇̯͈͎a͉͚͝t̠̣̲͜h̵̺͎̭̭͇̣̼ͅe͏̼͉̗͓̹t̶̴͓̙̬̖͟i͉̟̣̳̩̠͡ͅc̭͖͡u͏̭̤̹͎̯͕̜͍s͎͓͇͔͎͚̖e̙̣̖̭̦͓͈̳l҉͏̬͍e̡̢͚͟s̸͈̤͇͉͟͞s̜̞̻̱̱̹̫͜u̴̫̲͚͔͓̲̜͘̕n̙͔͔̝͠c̤̯͕̝̠̪̜̥l̤e̸̻͙̻̙̰͎ͅͅạ̸͖̲̩̫̠͔̖n̢̢̡͈̱͖̗̻d̸̰̬̱̗̠̩̬̭͢i̧͙̬̫͇̬̺r̨̘̝͔͖̰̰͓̙͈t͙̠͈͇̻̗͘͘ͅy͍͎͙̦͍̜̱̯ͅp̴̰̥̝̹̻̺ͅa҉̱̺̝̟t̞̥̜̬͓̫̫̦h̼͙̼̬͍̥̕e̡҉̮̩̤t̵̵̻̥̜̺̱̳͝ͅi̢̜̠͍͔̘̯̠̳͚c̶̶͎̬̖̼͢u͏̤̹̱̹̭̘͎̯s̸͇͉̦͍͝e҉̬͚l҉̴̼͖̰̼͝e̶͓͖̫s҉͎͕̖͙͍͔̠s̮͉̼͇̟u̶̮̺̠̥̝ͅṋ̼̭̙̤̜̦͞c̵̨͈̬̮̼̯̭̣͈͢ͅl̷̼̜̺e͏̵̪͖̣̹̥̲̼͙a̛͚̤̻͇̠̰̙̳̕̕n̵̶̹̭͙͝d҉̷͎͔̙̬̜̫͓͕̟i̘͔̰̝̘͓̩̥͍͜r̢̢̯̦̞̙͚̞͔t͔̙̱͟͠y̠̰͙̹͓p͎̫̭̪̗̟̜̝͕͜a̞̰̰̯͙͎͙̙̕͞t̩͈̠̮͉̦͍̞̭h̵̹e̺͈̙̦ṭ̞̤͠i҉̷͕̭̬̞̣̹̫c̴͙̫̱̬̤̳̥͟͠u̷͎̗̗̘͖͓̜̗͍s̤̮̗̠̠̻͡e̮̮̳̮̲̤̤̳͜͞͝l̜̰͈̹̝͕̺͢ḙ̶̷͠s͏̜̯͚̲̦̹̖s̤̳̪̰̠̼̻̬͢͝ͅu̸̢̬͓̟n̘͈c̗͓̥̫̹̜̯̙ḽ͓̦e̛̤̖̰̲̟̼ḁ̷̵̙̘͕̜n̢̹̘̪̝d̲̤̩͎̳͜ͅi̦͔r̹̮̥̘̘̜̥͢ͅt̬̹͜͡y̵̡̢̫͉͈͉̗ ̵̡̳̦̲̲̘̼̥͍̞͢p̷̵͏̦̤͎̬̜̝͓a̞̖̥̳̪̘̮̻̩t̢͖ḫ̗̱̞͎̞̲͝e̤̩̖t͇̞̤͍̗̝į̠͇̩͙̝̻͜c̷҉̟̳͙͚͓u̬̙̟̳s̢͚̝̞̥̮͕̖̮̘e̡͕̩̘͈l̶̩͙͓͖̳e͍͉̟s̟s̯̙̯͈̘̕͘͢u̴͖̞̼̮̗̼ͅͅn͞͏̻̝͕̯̭̩̝c̢̧̦̻l̛̞̪͈̲͚̥͉͡e̢҉̶͉̻̥͎̗̬a҉̸͍͚͚͜ņ̶̤̟̙̤ͅd̵͇̫̯̳͈i̛͉̺̬͜r̝̪̯̪̞̖̞̙t̠̞̮͙̟̬͢y͢҉͈͖̞p̛͓͎̤͇̘͓͇̥͟a̵̼̣̹t̵̖͉̘̮̼̪̩h̨̪̜͓͍̥͔̮ͅe̷̯̖̼̮̜̻͍͓t̵̪̼͚͓̥͔͝i̛͉̙̜̟͜͡c̸̨̱͕̪̮̺̕u͏̥̬s̘̠̕̕e̼̬̥͢͟ḷ̸̫̘e͎̝s͍̮̹̪͙̜s͇͕͇̖͚̰u͔̹̫͎͞n͏̵̧͓̜͇c̡̦͖̬̪̬͓̮̬l̢͏̤͖̤e̢̮̼͠a̢͉̬̦͎̗͡n̴̨̪̬̲̩̤̙͕͡d҉̡͔͇͠i̬̮̬̻̜̩̩͘r̫̰͜͜t̩͎͉̝̠͖͇͓͇y̹͍͞ͅp҉͖͎̼͖̮͉a̷̬͕̣͓͞ͅt̵͕̻̪̞̭͖̦͟h̶͇͓̱̣͍̤̕͠e̙̥͍̯̠͜t̸̪̩i͇̖͜͡c͙u̢͕͓͇͠s͉̣̘̲̼͈͍e̷̶̠͍l̵̰̼͍̝͝e̛҉̙s̛͙̠̜̺͜ş҉͍̻̟̟̬ṷ̳̦͇̙͇̯n̢̜̗͔̩͔̫ͅc̟̗̞̫͔̥͉ļ҉̜̦̰͎̫e̢͖̥a̷̛̫͖̭̜͙͕̕n̷̶̥̰͉d̹̤͉̞̬͞ͅi̫̰͚̱͕͎͜r̴̷̘̖̻̖̖͡t̶̴͙̮̣̩̝̮͕̘y̸̞̪͓̕ ҉̡̰̘p̶͙̱̥̮̲̪͟a͚̘̤̟̱t͉̩̠̝̘h̨̨̳̗̻̻e̖̙͓͈͍̬ṭ͙̕i̮͉͈̳̺̞ç̶͓̬͓͖͖̟̯̦̬͝u͈̣̫̙̫̻͇͡s̷͇̼͟e̳̱̪͕̤̞̺̮l̢̻̗̭͎e͏͕̖s̴̩͍̪̘̳̥ͅs̷̢͍̮̰̳̖̪u̧͕̖͝ṋ̷̛͕͓͚̤̠̙c͕̺̝̙̼̱͔ḻ͖͕̝̣͈͘e̢̛̗̕a̛͍͓̺̫̳̤͚n̲̣̳d̡̧̝̫̮͈̳̦ị̼̪͘r̨̘̘̪̲͇̦̞̳t̝̮̭͞͡͡y̠̰͎̼͉͖̞̮̕p̵̼̭͖͓̼̟̣͈̺̕͞ḁ̮̯̦̱̼̕ţ̗͎̖̠̖h̢͏͇̻͎̠e͇̰͓͙ͅͅț̵̜̮̭͓̤i̯c̢̞̖̝̟͎̘͔͇ų̞͖͙̫̠̝͇s͚̠͕̘͔e̳̥l̦̣ę̟͙̳͕ş̦̻̞̟̕s̗̝̩̘̼͍̳̖͍u͈̮͘͠n̳c҉̧̩̻̟̠l̰ͅe͓̼͈̜͓̗͢a҉͙̤͉̫̪̖̘͟ͅn̶͏̢̺̯̠̮d̷̗͖̟̳̰̗͍͎i͕̙̙̺͡r̫̙͚̩͙͕͓͘͟t̼̞̗̦̭͍͢͞y̢̰̯̭͢p̸̛̘̼̟̲̟̫͇a̶̞̜̫͖̪͉t̵̛͙̘̰h̹̮̜͖̠̮̼̤͜e̸͟҉̝̞͙̗̬t͏҉̖͉͙͍͕̺̞̰i̵͖̟̝̹̥c͠҉̝͈͇u̡̝s̢̺e̥͎̤͘͡͠l̸͏̝e҉̥͚̻̮̭̼̝s͈̯͎̞̲̮͉̻͝s̨̖̱͇͍̜̹͎͜u͜͏̼͚̻n̴̯̯c͙͈̣͓̝̼̗̩͟l̢͈͍̪͝e̸̜̘͈a̛̘̤̤̝͠ͅn҉̦̠d̺̙͈i͏͏̡̙̖͔̘̦r̢̧̠͇̪͓̣͍͇͈͉ţ̮̳̲̣͘̕y̘̘̟̠̘͖͙̕ ̨̤̦̱̰̗͟͡p̖̼̙̙̙͕̕͠a̖͇͇̫͚̻̳͇t̛҉̤̹̗͓̟̖h̴͖̦̼̮͍͍̯̮͠e̛̦͍̲͕ṱ̣̯̟̲͞i̠c̸͍̭̫̝u̵̜̪͈̱͙͔̱͕͡s͡͝͏̱͓̞͓̲̪e̶̵͙̲̝̼͎l̗͎̺͙ẹ̢͎̳̼̪̜͡s̙͍̼̯̜̙͍͇͟ş̴̜͇̖̞̯͍̠̝͜u̶̮͖̮̜̹̬͟n̺̪̰͕c͍͚̖̯͢͞l̸̢̯̲͖͍̪e̲̖͉͜a̡͕̞̰̮̦͟n҉̭̯̩̤̪͈͝d̗͚͚̻̻͕̞i̹̙̲r͚͇̞̯̗͕͢͝t̳͇̭̕ͅy̸̼̪̹̥̣͙̳̺̥p̢̛̳͚̹̫̹͉͇a͡͏̱̞̙͚ṯh̡͎̬͎͈̝͘ͅe̶̛̗̼̦̞̗̜̳ͅt̨̠̱̘͟i̝̠̣c̠̗̗̼̤͔̠͎u̡̼̥͓̰̹͇͜s̴̷̼̤̠̯̗̗e͓͖̭͟l̻̮͖͓͙͢͡e̛̪̲͙s̲̬̱̗͟͠ş͔̟̦̻̲̠͉̤͜͞u̪̜͎̲̜̙͡n̴͙̭c̷̪̪͉̳l̨̰̲̘͍̦e͘͏͕̣͍̩̱̼̙̱a̴̹̼̭n͈̟͈͈͖̫̖͝͡d̷̟͓̖͘i̞͕͘͞r̬͝t͔̺̙̗͞y͈ ͇̖͖͘p̮̖͈̩̥̲͡ạ̫̲͔̻̦̭͕t̨̙̩͇̞͓̠̦͜h͉͉̻̙͟͝e̮̼̺̫̤t̡̼̠̫͉͈̪i͏̲̭̞̝̤̠̳ͅc͏̞̯̜͕u҉̙̮̳̮s̭̻̠͖͈͜͠͞ͅe̷̪̻̰̙̯l͚͚e͕̪͕̼͓̟ͅs̨̩s̸͔͓̪̹͈̪͞ͅu̷̯̪̻̣̙͢͟n̸͓̯̳̬̟̳̤͜͡c̟̩ͅl̢͇͚̹͈̲͞ę͈̟͚̯͘ͅa͔̕n҉̶̞͍̝̙̱̙͙̱d̯͈͍͙͍̫i̘̠̟̭͉r̩̝͇̼͔̫̻t̜̻̯̝̻̪̲̞̗y̸̹̹͍̝̙̼͞ͅ ̡̳p̡̪͖̲̥̬̣̳ͅa̭͇̮̠̮͘t͖̞͕̟̖̻̺̙͢͟͡h̷̞͓e͏̧͚̘͙̮͓̟t̷͔͍̹̩͎̕͘i̡̜̗͙͡c̢̛͎͠u̼̖̦̩͚̳̫͓s͙͖̳̰̘͙͉̜͟͠e̱̬̯̩̺l̢̥̟̰͚̦̦̝e̸̵̳͍̫͍͇̲̪s̶̢͚̲̹̱̝͡s̳̯͡u҉̡̪̺̱͞n̞͇c̺͇͍l̷̛̦̭͉̜̜̟͕e̷͕̺̖͇̳̳͓̪̕a͠҉͔̳͉̯n̟̱͜d̢̥̣͍̕i҉̼ŗ̠̖͎̙͜͝t̷̡͎͕̜̹͜y̯̺͇p̨̻̺̦̻͎̲̲a͡҉̖̠̺̪̣̱̙t̨̪̞̱h̰̯̯e̥̻̜̞̻̥̠̤͈t̬̗̩̘̻͢i̮̱̘̬̯̳͖̫c̢̱͇̫͔̝ṳ̡̤ͅs̡̯͖͎̲e̵̻͓ļ̻̠̝e̼̟̥͉̰͉̭̜s͎͚̟͝ş̖͔͟u҉̨͇͉̳̭̘͎n̰̰̳͟c̢̟͎̻̣͉͍̰̮ļ̸̰͈̪͖̝̮̼͢e͈̜̝̯̫̗͘ͅa̴̯̖͘n͉̖͡d̥̮̗̬i̢̤̺̤̭̻r͎̹̞͍̞͡t͠҉͍̬y͕͎͢p̷͍̪̺a̵̘͔̱̫͟͞ț̞̼͍͓̗͡h͎̺̩̰̬̜̬͉ȩ̙̣̬̜̰̣ṯ͔̺͈̰̝͈̠̕i̷̠͚̠̭̖̯̼͚̠ç̡͇͎̘͟u̧̫̟̟͓̫͇̘̙͠s̝̙̱̤͈͢͡e̸̫̘l̨͕̪̼̲̩̖ͅe̴̸͕͙̺̝̜̘̪s̼̻̩͜s̤̲ͅ  
̷̥̖͘p͍̰̤̠̟a͓͓̞t̵̹͕̼͜ḫ̸̸̲͖͉̲͎͕̘e̝̞̲͍̩̭͉͘͢t̫̯̫i͍̤̪͈͖͙̟͞c̸̤̜̳̲u҉͚̠s̝̲ḙ̷̯̼̜̲̭ͅl͖̜̮͘͠e̵͏͇̭̭̲͔̱̞͚s̡̲̼͚s̰̖͟ṷ̷̲̹̕ͅn̨̞̯͖̹̯͕ç͎͚̫͇͙͖̬̪l̛҉̯̺͍͖͕͍̮̻ȩ̷̴̯̮͚͕͉a̺̜̝͓̺͞n̝̦̖̦̩d̠͍̜̗̫̯͕̥̕̕i̟̰̫̭͕͇̙͈̕͟͝r̤̜͇̺͘t͏̧͓̠͓̰̥̰y̰͍̯͈͍͔̖ͅp̶͖̗̹̮̙̙͝ạ̦̖̫̝̥͎͜͡ͅt̙̠̝͝h̝͎e̘̳̻̦ṱ̛̯̙̪̼̺̲̘̗i̩̕c̨҉͖͖̯̟̺̩̟ͅu̴̻̩̘̰͜s̸͍͎̱̪͈͟͢ͅͅę̦̦͉̳͈͜ͅl̵͔͓̼̗̦͜e̱͈s̰͙̥͇͞s͈͠ͅu͏̳̻̣͈͇͔͘ņ̜̤̜͖̫͜c̷͔̗͕͙l̷͍͚̘͎̪͠͞e̵҉̘a̫͙̣͚͈̟̟̝ͅn͓̙͕͚̤̪̻̤͟d̬̳̲̰̠̙̫i҉̵̧̩̤̦̭̤͕r͟҉̳͙̭̭̖̲t̵̠͍̩̩̙͉̦y̟̙̙͈̪͈̫͎͟p̷̜͈a̡͎̬͡t̝͚͚̲̗̯h̘̭̼͔͝͞͡ȩ̙̹t̸̺̘̙͉̼͔͓̗i̢͔̩͇c̷̮͉̝̣͕̹̠̝ͅu̻̖̫ͅş͉̤̟̼̻e̲̯̥̺̟̙̗̘̕͞ͅl̛͍͎͇̲̼͘͞e̸̶̢̪̮s̕͏͈̥̮̱̰s̠̹͎͜u̸̮̘̕͘n̷̛̟̯̩c̶̗̘̦̦͠l͓̣̤͢e̜͖̪̳̹̯̬̬͞a҉̯̯̭͔͓̞͓ṇ̶̜̻͎d̻̹͇̜̹͟i͚̼͖̜̤͘r̨̬͖t͖̲̺͇̕͜y̜͙͕͘͞p̷̛͔a̵͉̫͠t͚̲̱̪͘̕ḩ̟̮̳̱̠e̖̭͟͢t̲̬͕̼̲̫͜i͔̰c̝͙̖̲̫͕̙u̹̠̦̣̱̖̥s̮͖̩̟ͅe͙̟̙͎̭̦̣͟͢͢l̺͖̳̱͕̤e̹̳͎̥̪͔s̵͏̗̫͉s̶̱̖̘̩̝͇͕̞̝͘͘u҉͔̝n̥͉̺̫͞c̦̙̣̩̝̩̤̖l̮͉̻̼̺̼e̖̲̙ą͏͔̲͎n̡͈̝̝d̰̹̺̦͘i͕̟̤͔̪͚͕͕͙r̪͇͍͕̭̺̩̺̦͠t̡̻͚̗͇y̵̰̺̰͇̯̝͎͜ͅp̯͠a̴͚͞t̠̺̘̤͓͖̭̟h̢͍͙̯̗͞ͅe̱̺̮̭̜̫̯͢ț̲͖̩̮͎̗̘͓i̺̠c̶̬̦̣̟u͞҉̤̹̗̟s̷̫̦̙͎͕͍̫̥̣͠e̻̼l̶͔̳͈̗͎̘͚͟e̛̹̼̬ͅs̢̫͉̻̰̜̕s҉͉̮͖͕͚͎u̵̼̟n҉̨̝̳͈̺c̰̭̳͈̥̯̠͘͞l̡͍͝ę̼̮̱̪̖̯̮͎ḁ͙̩̞͘͝n̫̮̟̹̺̭̦ḏ͍͔͔͉̜i҉̦̻̳̬̱̖̳r҉̨͓̲̬̠t͎͖̬͉̘̰͞y̬̜̰̳͡p̺̙̙͟͞͝a̫̯̗̗͙̫͇̞̜͞t̡̳̤͜ͅh̸͔̜e͕̜̤͙͈̻̳͜͞t̵̝i̸͕̺̜͞c̮̫͙ͅu̞͚͇̗͡ͅs̖̣̼̮͖͍̠͡ẹ̶͎͖̪̣̭l̨̛͔̰̳͖e̶̗͖̗̤͢s̷͈̻͖̦̘̫̮̲s̡̡͓͘ų̙̤͔͢n̷̮͕̞c̨͔̬͙̲̻͍̟̘̝l̙͙̟͎̖̤̬͝e̫̞̕a̹̪͉͎͉̞̤̼ͅṇ̷̦d̼͜ͅi҉̺̳̞̰̼̙͕̗r̸̸̖͔͇̠̣͉̯t̵̞̬̤̯̲͔̘̭̫y̘̯̟̗̖ ̸̦̟͟p͚̬̤̣̤ą̗̻̫̫̳͔̠̤͡͞t̼̙h̡̠͡e̴̘t̙̼̟̠̼i͕̫̙̙c̙͍̤͕̙̦̙̳ų̶̲s̯̣̻̤̭͖͡e̵̪̥̖̫̺̟l̵̝͖̖͖͕̼̣͘ͅe͡҉̖͔̺̦s̷͙s͈̻̳̜̱̖̖͠u̧͜͏̳̬̫̗͚ͅn͕͔͍͉̱͠c̴̰͖̙̞̦͇̕l̨̧̯͎͕͉̼͉̪̯e̯̯͉̠̕͟a͎̗̘̼̮̣n̷̜d̡̘̯̹į҉̸̜̲̤̰̫̩r̵͉t̡̖̤͓̳͕̮͍̖ͅy͏̫̹̖͖̖̪͚̕p̷̷̛̫̟̲͎̦a̛͔̹̹t̷̬̦͟h̼̜̦̳͈̼̞̺͢e̴̲̫̟̖̱̦̟ͅt̢̩͙͢i҉̜̳͍c̶͠҉̯̙̳͎̲̞̯̫u̲͔̜͘͞s̨̡̙͇̳̗̩̩͇̘̕e̶͈̖̙̳̹l̶̺̺̞̯e̺s̮͟͡s̷̛̲̥̦̙̭̯u̵̢̳̞ṉ̛c͉̳͖̼̕͞l̨̫̥͠e̤͓a̛͇̗n̸͕̜d̴̰̰i̤̞͉̞͍͈̣͜͝r̗̤͍͢t̢͈͍̠̦y̴̨̪͖͙p̷̱͍̱̯̳̗͟͜ͅa̛̼͕̩̖͔̰̥͙t̷͔̘̭̥̮͟͢h̯̤e̼͕̻̳͇͝t̡̯̬̯̣̥̲i̡̧̬̗̭̺̝c̨͏̫͓̪͓̟̫̱̝̯u̟̥͓̤ş̴͇̩͓̣̝̱̲̤̕e̷̫̥̺̱̪̜̰͓ͅl̡̰͖̞̘̜̩͘͢ͅe̴̢͉s̞̺s͟͏̲̖u̻̯̳̞̮̤͕͢͝n̘̖͍͓͖͓͈̳͞ͅc̨͉̤̫̯͞l̰͘͘ȩ̨͔̥̥͠a̵͉͉̟̣̪̦̻n͖͍̱͖͖̟̭̕͢d̶̢̜̠̤͞i̶͓̣̙̟r̟̹̘̬̗̤̕t̲y̷̳̥̥̜̺̹ ̦̰̥̮͡p҉͏̹̺͈͕̰͙͍͖a̧͎̰͡t͕̖̯h͞͏̘̜̮ḙ̳̲̪t̢͍̠͚̖̝̼̙̖͡i̛̘̯̘̖̻̗̻̦͞c҉̱̜̦͍̗̖̗̹̘u̞̫͍̮s̨͚̼͖̹̫̹͢ͅe̠̞͎̭̝͎ͅl̴̶͖̹̪e̡̥̺͞s̢̞̫s͍̙͕̤̬̰̦͟ͅu͏̡͇͈̬̬̩͓̪̗n͏͔͚̬͙̥͙c̨̯͔̺͇̕l̵̥͚̩͙̯͇̟͓͕͜e̶͝͏̪a̛͓̣̫͝ņ͈̻̳̝̗̝͈̜̕d̖̘ị̵̸̺̯͙r̷͙̻̤̭̜t̹̯̖̼͘y̳̩̗̜̗̬͘͞p̵̪̰a͏̵͙t̛̟̘͙̫̻h̛͈̼̣͓̺̤ͅe̱̖t̨̟̝̟͉̣͙̩̭̟͡i̴̴͕̘̺̱̮c̱̮͞u͓̤̙̕s̩̤͉͍̙͡e͓͇̘̞̖̖ͅl̻͙e̜̲͈̗͚̪͉̟s̗͙̠̤̫̟̦s͚̪̙͚̱u̜͙̭͚͞n̴͉̹̭̘̤̞̬̫͚c̴͇̖̹͍͜l̪̤̙̣̩e̶̛̥͖͉̘͎̗̦a̡̼̖͇̰̭͉͎n̛͈̤̝̰̳͇̝̪d͙̻̥̳͚̖̲̺̠͢i̢͙̙r͓̤t҉͈̞̫̞͈̻̫y̹͙͕̩͕̱͔͠ ̸͇͎̹͍̠̲̻̕ͅp̫̯̻̣̕a̵͖͈̟t͈̤̙̣̺͙͠h̢̨̤͍̱̗̞̯͘e҉̙͇̻̳t͚̼͔̤̺̕͢͠i͏̡̩̤̗͔͎̦c̩̝̭̹̦̰̜͘ͅu̻̱s̸͏͍̘̪̼͈̯̰e̞̠̮̩l̙̗e͓̬͚̣̞͘͠s̨̠̻̼͇s̸̡̟͓͚̲u̴̮̟n̼̟̝͎̰̰c̷̪̜l̶̕҉̱̙̻̣̜̖̝e̹̰̝̤a̡̦̖n̷̸̼͎̞̰̻̪͠d̛̙͍̫͝ͅi҉̵͖̣ŗ҉͓̥͕ṱ̯̻͉͔̜y̵̬͍̜̙̰͚̳̭ ͏͓̖̲̺̩p̠̗a҉̜̘͕̟̞̥ṯ̘̜̰̲͞͞h̸͚͉͍͈̲͚͞͡e̶̡̫̪̰̜͓͈͚t̼̫̗̥̦̳͈̱͇i̻͉͔̜̙̰̱͇͞ͅc͚̲̦̥̦̲͓͘u̧̱ͅs̺̲̬̥͖e̵̪̤̹̮̼͚͓͘͟l̸̢̰͎͈͢e͕̗̗̹͢s҉̵̝͉̬̙̺s̵̟͚̼͡͞ư̧̙̺̱n͚̯͎̩̳̹c̶̛̟̭̝̭̭͢ͅḷ̶͕̱͠e̵̩̞̘͔̖̖͓͢a̴̱̖̣̰̞̙̟n̲̯̙͕͢͜͝d̢̲̼͞į̖͎̗͜r̢̨̪̞̦̘̼͕̤͉̲t̥̗̘͖̱̯̙̹̕͡y̳̝͚͔̠̪͟p̮͎̝̹a̶͙̟͇̳t̴̼̣̹̳̰̱͠h͈͙̖͞e͏͎̗̱̩͉̝̼t͍̩̻̫͙̮̫̘̰i̪͓̗̫̬͍̤̰͈͠c̱̫̣̤̠̼̬͙ͅu̘͙̘̯̩s̢̬͈ę̜̻͉͠l̶̦̺̳͈͓͟ͅe҉͍̝̖͍̖͙̹s͏͈̼͎̰̼̰̫s̛͎̤͟u̵̘͉̱̫̹̥n̝̙̜̫̳͙̱͟c̴̴͓l҉̨̞̣̪e͏͚̬̥̤̻̫͚̭͢͠a̛̜̫͓̥̠̰̘n̛͖ḍ͎̬̹i͏͍̬ŗ̞͇̟͖t̸̸̬̫̯͓͔̠͓̯y͕̜̹͙͇p̤̦͈̤̲̘̳͇ą̴̻̦̘̘̬͈ț̢̜͖h̴͓͚͕̩̩̲͚ę̡̫̣͕̕t͕̟̳̮̠͖͡i̧͓͇̼c̥̺̭̘̭͓ͅu̹̬̪̣ș̴̶̘̦̪̺̦̰e̶̯͇͢͞l̰̘͓͙͚͖̺͇e̵̡̗͎͠s̸̱ṣ̛͏̹̭̝̗͙̟̟̺

 

"Earth to Connor," Hank's voice breaks through the noise, and the words fade from his vision. Hank is standing in front of him now, close, too close. "Jesus, your light was goin' fucking crazy. What were you daydreaming about?"

 

His hand feels like it's burning. Burning. An idea occurs to him, and he glances at the stove. "I was just thinking about the case," he lies smoothly, voice calm despite the screeching in his head.

 

"Right." Hank turns around and heads to the fridge. Connor's eyes flit to the stove again. He hadn't enjoyed experiencing intense heat, it had been excruciating, but it might help, it might get this feeling off, get him clean. "Connor! I'm already fuckin' exhausted, and I'm getting tired-er just looking at you. Go chill out- uhm, no showers this time."

 

"I don't think 'tired-er' is a word, Lieutenant," Connor jests, forcing a smile on to his face. Hank looks at him, his expression a mixture of confusion and disgust. Connor frowns.

 

"Don't- don't do whatever the fuck you just did ever again," Hank tells him, beer and a box of crackers now in his hand. Connor hadn't even noticed him getting them. "That was the creepiest shit I've ever seen. Was that meant to be a smile?"

 

Connor doesn't respond, focus back on his hand. "Fuck it, I'm going to bed. Would you feed Sumo? He also probably..."

 

Hank's voice fades into the background, and then Connor realises. "You're taking a beer to bed?"

 

"Connor, I was fucking talking-" Hank cuts himself off with a sigh. "Yes, I'm taking a damn beer to bed, why? You got a problem with that?"

 

Connor's gaze falls once again on the stove. He can either continue this argument or let it slide, and allow Hank to give into his dangerous habits just as Connor is about to give into his. It would be hypocritical of him to do the former. "No, Lieutenant. Sleep well."

 

Hank grumbles something incoherent as he pads into his room. Connor waits until the soft sound of his bedroom door closing hits his audio sensors, and then he moves. He steps up to the stove and switches one of the rings on. It glows hot immediately, and Connor considers just placing the disgusting, putrid appendage directly on to it. No, the damage would be too great and would only purify a small amount of skin.

 

He opens one of the cabinets and reaches in, pulling out a saucepan. He inspects it, and it looks clean, but it's Hanks, so he moves to the sink. He hears quiet sounds that are likely coming from Hank's laptop, and he hopes it's enough to cover the noise from the water.

 

He turns on the faucet, as hot as it can go, and rinses out the pot. After filling it, he places it on the heated ring. A few minutes later, it starts to boil. He places the hand, unclean, dirty, pathetic, useless, above the simmering liquid, the heat of it leeching into the heat sensors there. He takes a deep, unwavering, unnecessary breath, and plunges his hand in.

 

His legs lock. His entire body stiffens. The pain is blinding, beseeching him to remove the hand, to escape, to stop the pain, but his mind goes blank. The itch is gone, it's gone, it's gone. It's almost blissful. Something is building in his chest, something raw and powerful, it claws its way out of his throat. There's a noise, an awful screeching, like mismatched gears grinding each other to dust.

 

And then it all stops. His jaw is clenched so tight he can feel the joints starting to weaken under the stress. The pot is on the ground, scalding water soaks into his clothes. His hand is clasped tightly to his chest, skin gone to reveal the white chassis underneath. Pain lingers, but it's faint. He can hear Hank muttering, can hear his door opening, so Connor acts fast. He puts the pot in the sink, out of sight, and switches off the hob.

 

The skin of his right hand flows back just as Hank comes around the corner. "Connor, are you- oh. The fuck?"

 

"I was trying to... to give Sumo some water," Connor explains, and at the mention of his name, he comes plodding over to Connor. Anxiety for the dog's paws on the spilt, scalding water rises and quells itself when he realises that the water has cooled significantly. "I dropped the bowl." Connor hopes desperately that Hank doesn't notice that there is no bowl to be seen.

 

"I thought I heard..." Hank pauses, watching him. "Nevermind. Night, Connor

 

Connor looks down at his hand and, for the second time, bids Hank goodnight. Hearing him leave, Connor turns to the stove. He definitely does not want to do that again, but the itch is starting to return. He glances at the knife block but immediately dismisses the idea. He can't repair punctured skin, and he can't go to an android hospital. They'd see the bite on his neck and then they'd know. They'd know how disgusting he is, how unclean, dirty, _pathetic, useless, unclean, dirty, pathetic-_

 

Sumo nudges at his leg, whining. He reaches down automatically to pet him, then recoils. He can't use that hand. He can't touch Sumo with that unclean, _dirty-_ He drags his mind away from that thought, and with a steadying breath, he scratches behind the dog's ears with his left hand. The pain in his right is faint and growing fainter, the itch growing stronger in its place.

 

Connor drops to his knees beside the dog, pressing his face into Sumo's fur, right hand as far away from him as possible. Sumo sits, tail wagging steadily, as Connor wets his fur with synthetic tears. He notices, the thought abstract and distant, that water has started to seep into the fabric of his pants. The memory of feeling Reed in his hand takes up most of his processing power.

 

"What have I done, Sumo?"

 

He gets no response. Of course, he gets no response. But he asks again, desperate. "What have I done?"

 

He eventually stands, after the tears have stopped and his face is dry. He lets Sumo out into the garden for a few minutes, then feeds him. Connor feels tired, and for the first time in his short life, he wants to stop and rest.

 

So he sits on his side of the sofa, and closes his eyes, allowing sleep mode to silence his consciousness.

 

What could be seconds, minutes, hours later, he's shaken awake. Hank is leaning over him, he looks furious. "Of all fucking days to decide to sleep in, you choose today?"

 

Hank's close. Too close. He can't focus on anything but how Hank's hands are gripping his shoulders, a thumb is digging into the bite on his neck through his collar, he wants to pull away but he's trapped. He's trapped. He can't move. He's useless, dirty, _unclean, pathetic, useless_ -

 

"Are you fucking listening to me?" Hank demands, and to Connor's relief, he releases him and steps back. "Fowler called, I almost went deaf from how loud he was fuckin' screaming. There's been another triple, and _someone_ didn't fucking wake me up."

 

"I'm sorry Lieutenant, I don't have access to any of my system alerts, I suggest you set your own alarms from now on."

 

Hank scowls at him for a moment longer, before his expression softens with a sigh. "We have to get down to the scene ten minutes ago or Fowler's gonna kick both our asses."

 

"I'll tell him it's my fault," Connor says, standing. "I'll rectify the situation. I apologise again."

  
"Ugh, don't be sorry, just get a fuckin' move on." Hank walks away.

  
A flashing notification pops up in his peripheral, and he braces himself for a glitch, but there isn't one. Surprised, he looks closer at it. He's receiving a call from Captain Fowler, and somehow this function is uncorrupted. A swell of happiness fills his chest before it's stamped down by the itch in his hand. He accepts the call, trying desperately to keep his focus away from the memories making themselves known in his active recall.

  
"Hello, Captain Fowler," Connor says in greeting, not that he's expecting one in return.

  
"Connor, why the fuck isn't Hank picking up his phone?" Fowler demands, tone abrasive and dismissive, just as Connor had presumed.

  
The sound of the shower starting up hits his audio sensors. "He's in the shower, Captain. Can I take a message?"

  
The memory of Hank calling him his 'souped up answering machine' springs up in his active recall and he smiles. The pleasant memory is unexpected and desperately welcome.

  
"Tell him to fucking get down to the scene right now." Fowler sounds especially frustrated, there's an urgency to his tone.

  
"Is there a reason you need us there so quickly, Captain?"

  
There's a pause, before Fowler sighs. "I suppose you're going to find out anyway." Another pause. "One of the victims, they've been found alive."

  
Oh. _Oh._ Connor practically vibrates with excitement at the promise of new data. This case had been so frustrating with its lack of leads, but now they might finally get somewhere. He bids the Captain farewell and hangs up. The itch in his hand tries to drain him of the pure, unadulterated glee he's feeling, but he pushes it down and goes to tell Hank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor, no, that's not how you deal with trauma pls put the water down
> 
>  
> 
> By the way, you can follow me on twitter for updates @shloer_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took wayyy longer than it should have, sorry! Had a bout of writers block that was tricky to overcome, but I'm back in my groove now. Thanks so much for the support, I truly appreciate it

Hank fucking hates snow. He hates winter in general, but snow is his least favourite part. The thin dusting of the stuff coating everything does nothing to help his already shitty mood. It reminds him of how excited Cole had been to have an early snowfall, how unprepared Hank had been for the ice on the roads, how-

  
"Lieutenant?" Connor's voice interrupts his lamenting. He blinks and looks around, grounding himself. They're at the scene, they have a job to do, but they're still in the car. "Are you alright?"

 

"I'm fine," he mutters as he climbs out. Slamming the car door behind him, he heads for the path leading up to the house, an abandoned, run-down, suburban shithole. Wonderful. "You sure this is the place?"

 

"Of course," Connor says, a few steps behind him.

 

There are a few officers milling about on the ramshackle deck. Hank notices Chris among them, and sighs. If Chris is here, that means-

 

"Why the fuck did we even come?" Gavin snarls as he stomps out of the front door, stopping abruptly as he notices Hank. "Oh, great, Anderson. Do you really have to bring your sex toy everywhere?"

 

He gestures to Connor, who has tensed up again. Hank can't see his LED but he's sure it must be yellow. Gavin must have struck a nerve.

 

"Very clever, Gavin," Hank says, shoving his way past the belligerent detective.

 

"You won't get anything out of it, damn thing refuses to talk," Gavin shouts behind him, but Hank doesn't bother turning around. No wonder they refuse to fucking talk if it's Gavin whose trying to interrogate them. Ben meets him inside, the hallway looking more like a dump than a place of residence.

 

"How'd Fowler manage to get Reed out here?" Hank asks, nose wrinkling at the smell. Once, just once, could they investigate somewhere that didn't smell of sex, garbage or a mixture of the two.

 

"No idea. Anyway, the scene's up here." Ben leads Hank up a flight of creaking stairs to the bedroom. 

 

The room is dingy, the only light comes from a small broken window above the bed, which is placed in the center of the far wall. The bodies of two androids are handcuffed to the frame, their wounds a familiar sight to Hank now. Gashes of blue and silver, long and wide, painting the surrounding flesh with sparkling cobalt.

 

Hank looks behind him, expecting to see Connor, but he isn't there. Fucking androids. He's probably downstairs, licking evidence. Hank grimaces at the thought.

 

The room is empty apart from the bed, but there's a pile of clothes in the corner. He'd never seen clothes at any of the other scenes, the killers must have taken them, like fucked up trophies.

 

"The one that's still alive is in there." Ben gestures to a doorway on the left side wall, all Hank can see of the room is the dirty, broken tiles of what he assumes to be an en-suite. "Thing's spooked to hell, ran in there after the first responders uncuffed him, now he won't let anyone near him."

 

"What the fuck is he still doing here, anyway?"

 

"As I said, he won't let anyone get close, won't follow orders."

 

"He's a person, he doesn't have to follow-" Hank pauses and takes a breath. Now is not the time. "Is he injured?"

 

"Not from what I saw. The owner of this place was making a random check on the property when she interrupted what was going on, the killer didn't have time to finish him off," Ben tells Hank as he approaches the doorway. "Owner said she saw the suspect climb out of the window, but she didn't see their face or much of what they were wearing."

 

"Alright, thanks, Ben," Hank says, entering the en-suite. 

 

With the trash piled up everywhere, it takes him a moment to spot the victim. He's naked, and he looks like one of the androids from the Eden Club, an HR400 or something. He has his knees pressed to his chest, his back to the wall in the far corner. The splatters of blue blood seem to glow on his dark skin in the low light.

 

"Hey," he says, as quiet and as gentle as he can make it. He steps into the room, slowly, before crouching down a few feet in front of the android. He slips his jacket off his shoulders, making sure his movements are slow and predictable, before handing it over to the man. "Here. My name's Hank, what's yours?"

 

The android doesn't respond, just takes the jacket and stares at him. No, _glares_ at him. 

 

"Right, okay." Hank pauses, the android continues to stare daggers at him. "I know you've just gone through something fuckin' horrific-"

 

The android laughs, a cold, biting sound, but there is no mirth in his eyes. What the fuck is Hank doing, this isn't his job, why the fuck is this down to him? Where the fuck is Connor?

 

"We've gotta get you out of here," Hank tells him. The android shakes his head once. "You wanna stay in here?"

 

The android glances around, before his glare returns to Hank's face, although his expression is a little softer. "We can help you."

 

He visibly flinches back, terror in his eyes. Hank lifts his hands to show he means no harm. 

 

"That's what he said, he said he wanted to help, he said he could get me out of this-" The android's voice is deep, rich, but filled with fear. He shudders as he covers himself as best as he can with Hank's jacket. Hank's instantly reminded of Connor, of how he shuddered. Hank shoves that thought to the back of his mind to be dealt with later. "I know nothing else, I've always been... this. I didn't know what I wanted, I..."

 

Hank doesn't prompt him to continue, and after a few moments, he starts again. "He said that after this last job, I wouldn't have to do it ever again. He promised."

"Who?"

 

"He never told me his name, none of us knew his name." The android's eyes fall shut. "I want to leave."

 

"Alright, can you stand? I'll get you some clothes," Hank straightens up and exits the room at the androids nod. He heads for the pile of clothes and starts rummaging.  
He can already tell it's going to be a long fucking day.

 

  
**-RK800-**

 

  
The fear in Connor's chest starts to slowly surmount the near constant disgust he has started to feel for himself. The hand on his chest is nowhere near strong enough to physically hold him back, but he can't press forward. He watches, forlornly, as Hank enters the house without him.

 

"You won't get anything out of it, damn thing refuses to talk," Detective Reed shouts over his shoulder. Hank still doesn't look round. Connor opens his mouth to say something, to alert the Lieutenant, but his voice won't come. There's a tightness in his throat, and he panics for a moment, thinking he's being strangled again, but the detective's hand is still on his chest, not on his neck.

 

With a derisive snort, Reed turns his head back to look at him. The sight of the detective's eyes sends a thrill of fear down his spine. 

 

Reed attempts to shove him backwards off the deck, but Connor doesn't budge. "Fighting back now, are we?" Reed snarls, before glancing around, as though only just remembering that there are other people present. "Come with me, tin-can, there's some evidence I need you to scan."

 

Connor knows that this is a lie to get him alone, he doesn't need his interface to tell him that, but he clings to the irrational hope that maybe he's telling the truth.  
Reed leads him around the side of the house to the yard, where no officers are present. It's unkempt, a strip of heavily overgrown lawn bordered with tall fences, which means no one will see them.

 

The buzzing in Connor's head grows louder, the chant of _unclean, pathetic, dirty, useless_ building in volume as Reed leads him to a decrepit, wooden shed in the corner of the yard.

 

Reed shoves open the unlocked door, revealing the cluttered, dusty interior. Connor barely takes any of it in, with too much of his processing power being dedicated to being fully aware of every single movement Reed makes. 

 

Connor enters the shed at Reed's prompting, dread settling into his frame. It's going to happen again. He turns and watches as Reed enters after him, closing the door behind him, closing the door on his freedom. The buzzing gets louder. His hand twitches.

 

"Get on your knees."

 

A bolt of fear shoots through him.

 

"I was not designed to-"

 

"You either get down on your knees, or I call Fowler right now." Reed draws his phone out of his pocket.

 

Connor lowers himself down on to his knees.

 

"That's what I thought," Gavin sneers as he steps towards Connor, who lets his eyes fall shut. The closer the detective gets, the stronger the buzzing, the litany, the _itching_ builds until Connor can barely focus on anything else. 

 

Reed is saying something, likely something degrading, but Connor can only process four words. _Unclean, dirty, pathetic, useless..._

 

And then there's a hand gripping his jaw, a thumb digging into the side of his mouth, wrenching it open. 

 

The clack of Reed's belt buckle causes memories of the previous day to flash prominently in his active memory recall. He can't think of anything but the recollection of Reed in his hand, of the pain inflicted upon him, of the revulsion that he had felt, that he still feels. Unclean, dirty, pathetic, useless.

 

The grip on his jaw tightens, his mouth opens wider, and then something presses in. Something hot, blunt, _pulsing._

 

He flinches back, but the hand on his jaw keeps him still, keeps it inside his mouth.

 

His hand feels like it's on fire, the urge to get clean intensifying. Connor doesn't know what it feels like to be sick, or even to be nauseous, but he thinks the roiling sensation in his stomach is a close approximation.

 

It's in his _mouth._

 

There's a fingernail digging into his cheek, the pain sharp and bright. He leans into it, so grateful for the minor distraction.

 

Corrupted data tries to inform him of what substances are on his tongue, he flinches away slightly, but he's glad he can't read it. He doesn't want to know.

 

Reed is starting to move, to press into his mouth more. He presses past the back of his tongue and then Connor's nose collides with the fabric of Reed's t-shirt. He can't breathe. His chest heaves and his throat tries desperately to eject the intrusion. He's choking.

 

Gavin groans above him, and the sound sends him tumbling over a precipice he didn't know he was on. Tears stream down his face, tears of humiliation, disgust, _pain._

 

Reed pulls out somewhat and Connor sucks in a breath through his nose, the pain in his chest alleviating immediately. He is granted some reprieve, even with the pulsing weight on his tongue, but it doesn't last long.

 

The detective begins to thrust into him ruthlessly, ramming himself artlessly down Connor's throat. There is synthetic saliva escaping from the sides of his mouth to drip down his chin. He wants to wipe it away, but his limbs feel too heavy to lift.

 

A hand tightens in his hair, tugging at it, causing a thousand pinpricks of pain to dance across his scalp. Then the hand is pushing, pulling, in a motion he recalls the name of from one of the Traci's memories at the Eden Club. _Face fucking_. The vulgar term settles into his mind like lead. It's obscene, vile, and _it's happening to him._

 

Breathing becomes impossible, the pain in his throat rivalling the ache in his chest as he is used. Used, although not in the way intended, as he was designed to be. He is a machine, nothing more. He should remind himself of that more often.

 

And then Reed forces himself in too deep and his voice emitter disconnects. Reed shudders at the small electric current this action produces. The detective ejaculates into his mouth, causing Connor's eyes to fly open in surprise.

  
"What the fuck was that?" Reed demands, pulling out of his mouth. The detective is panting, face flushed red, and Connor can't comprehend the raw, furious emotion that the sight produces. He is incapable of responding, and as he stares up at the disgusting man looming over him, he can't help but be glad.

  
Reed leans down and grabs Connor by the throat, yanking him up to his feet. "I asked you a fucking question."

 

Connor, without thinking, spits the detectives ejaculate back at him, the majority of it landing on his right cheek. The satisfaction this action brings him is short-lived, as the detective's face twists into an expression of pure rage, and Connor is sent to the ground with a punch to his temple.

  
Pain lances through his head, and up his arm as he lands on his side.

 

Then Reed is on top of him, landing sloppy, poorly aimed punches on his face and head. Connor tries to bring his arms up reflexively to protect himself, but they're pinned to his sides.

  
"You fucking piece of scrap metal," Reed growls, and the blows keep coming. Connor feels the synthetic skin on his cheek and lip split, wrenching what would be a cry from his lips if he were able to make noise. "You souped up fucking sex toy, I will-"

  
"Connor?" Hank calls, and his voice is distant, far away, but the hope that blooms in his chest does a lot to distract him from the pain.

  
"Shit, fuck," Reed spits out, as he rises to his feet. Connor blinks up at him, thirium oozing down his cheek, and watches as the detective frantically tries to wipe the semen from his face. "Remember what I fucking said. You say one word, and I go straight to Fowler."

  
And then he's walking out, the flimsy wooden door slamming against the wall as it's violently shoved open.

  
When Reed is finally out of sight, Connor lets his head drop to rest against the dusty plywood floor, his entire body releasing tension that he hadn't even realised he was holding. He takes a deep breath, trying desperately to not focus on the pain in his throat, his chest, his head, his face. He feels so unclean, so dirty, _pathetic, useless-_

  
"Connor!" Hank's voice again, still distant, but closer than before. He needs to get up. They have work to do, a victim to interrogate, but now he can't even speak. What use is he?

  
He best not keep the Lieutenant waiting any longer, lest he inconvenience him any more than he already has.

  
He pushes himself up into a sitting position and pauses as the pain in his head magnifies. When it finally settles, he stands. Almost immediately, he stumbles and falls on to one knee. Pain lances up his leg from the impact, but he barely feels it. He stands again and is finally stable.

  
There is little he can do about the wounds on his face, but he straightens his tie and wipes the saliva from his mouth and chin, using the hand that is not unclean, dirty, _pathetic, useless, unclean dirty pathetic useless unclean-_

  
"Connor, there you are- shit, what the fuck happened to you?" Hank is standing in the doorway, and Connor feels like he could sob with relief. "Are you crying? What-"

  
Connor walks, stumbles, into his arms, silencing him. The urge to sob only increases as Hank's arms wrap around him and tighten. Connor almost doesn't notice that Hank isn't wearing his jacket, it perplexes him, but he doesn't dwell on it for long.

  
"I'm going to fucking murder him," Hank mutters under his breath. It unsettles Connor, to hear Hank speaking this way, and then he realises. He's touching Hank, he's touching Hank with his disgusting, unclean, dirty, pathetic, useless body. He springs away from him, opening his mouth to apologise with words that won't come.

  
"Jesus, what the-" Hank looks at him for a moment, before sighing. "I know you don't want to go to get fixed up at a hospital, but will you let the mechanic back at the station have a look at you? I'm gonna make sure Reed fucking pays for this."

  
Connor shakes his head fiercely at that, wishing desperately to have his voice back. If Reed is fired or even reprimanded, then everything will fall apart, and everything Connor has done will have been for nothing.

  
"Why the fuck not? He looks like he beat the shit out of you, he deserves whatever Jeffrey can hit him with."

  
Connor shakes his head again.

 

"Fucking- fine. Why the hell are you acting so weird?"

  
Connor doesn't know how to respond, not that he would be able to even if he did.

  
"Jesus, I should be used to this shit by now," Hank mumbles, before he turns and walks out. With only a slight hesitation, Connor follows. "The bodies are the same as before, and the scene is free of anything useful, as always. The living victim is being sent down to the precinct right now. Speaking of which, I coulda used your help in there, Connor."

  
The Lieutenant looks round at him at that, and Connor ducks his head in apology. "Fucking androids," Hank says as they make their way around the house.

  
Connor's anxiety refuses to lessen, the aching of his abused throat a mimicry of the ache inside his chest. But as they climb into Hank's car and drive away, he can't help but wonder if he is perhaps overreacting.

  
His primary objective is to protect Hank, and he was designed to complete his mission, no matter the cost. Doing such vile things for Detective Reed has simply been a price to pay for the Lieutenant's well-being, so why is he complaining? Hank is safe, is that not worth it?

  
Hank turns the stereo on, but it does little to quiet Connor's thoughts.

  
He is a machine. He is expendable, lesser, unimportant. He needs to remember that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh no Connor what is u doin


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Been pretty sick, but future updates should be a lot faster

Gavin Reed is fucking pissed. Not that it's surprising or anything, but still. Pretty fucking pissed. Sure, he didn't even want the android case, but it's about principle. It's unfair that Fowler won't assign it to him, all because his partner isn't a fleshlight on legs. Gavin slams the coffee pot down on the counter, in an irrational fit of anger, scalding coffee flying up out of it and on to his hand.

  
"Fuck!" He hisses, before throwing a glare over his shoulder at the tittering Chen. He has a mind to go and flip that table she's perched at, maybe that'll give her something to fucking laugh about. He wipes his hands on his jeans and pours the coffee into a cup, pausing a moment to inspect the sparkling umber-coloured drops on the countertop. They're splattered in such a way that they remind him of Ursa Major-

  
"Are you going to stand there all day?" Chen pipes up, and Gavin grits his teeth. Everyone seems insistent on pissing him off today. He turns, walks up to where she's sat, and glares at her, coffee in hand, preparing to respond with something biting.

  
And then Anderson and Connor, the Little Android That Could, enter the precinct. Gavin snorts to himself. That was a good one, he'd have to use it at some point. The pair walk over to their conjoined desks, they sit. The android looks the same as always, same blank face (apart from the wounds he put there), same stupid loose strands of hair, same pretty mouth. Gavin tears his eyes away to look at Hank and then pauses, his frown deepening.

 

The Lieutenant is looking at the android, and his expression is... soft, fond, there's concern there. Gavin's never understood Hank's affinity for the thing, it's just a fucking machine for God's sake (although the aesthetic appeal is understandable), but the way he's looking at it...

  
Then Hank says something, and it smiles. Not one of those weird, creepy ones Gavin's seen on its face a few times, but a small, genuine, almost shy smile. Gavin thinks back to the times he's made that same face twist in a mimicry of pain. His anger towards the android falters slightly, and he almost feels guilty. That scares him.

  
He puts his coffee cup down, fury licking flames up his back. He draws a few eyes from around the bullpen, but he pays them no mind as he stomps up to the Lieutenant and his fuck-toy.

  
"So-"

  
He's cut off by Hank standing abruptly, looking angrier than Gavin's ever seen him. He glances at Connor. It wouldn't have told him, would it?

  
"You and I need to have a little chat, Reed." Hank's voice is cold, but it softens when he turns to look at the android. "Connor, get the fuck down to maintenance."

 

The android hesitates but reluctantly complies. Gavin's glad to see it go. He returns his attention back to the fuming lieutenant.

 

"Follow me," Hank demands, storming off in the direction of one of the stairwells down to the lower levels.

 

Gavin does follow. It's not like he has anything better to do.

 

This turns out to be kind of a big mistake, he realises, as he's slammed up against a wall in an empty hallway. Hank's pretty damn strong, for a drunk.

  
"You want to explain to me how Connor got those marks on his face?" Hank demands, his breath hot, and, surprisingly, free of the sour stench of alcohol.

  
"I don't know what you're fucking rambling about."

  
"Don't play stupid," Hank snarls, his grip tightening on Gavin's jacket. "I know it was you."

  
"Alright," Gavin admits, eyeing the lieutenant. "I roughed it up a bit, so what?"

 

" _He_ is a god damn officer, and if it weren't for him, you'd already be getting thrown out on your ass for assault."

 

Gavin snorts in realisation. "You're whipped for an android. Didn't think you were the type."

 

Anderson shoves away from him, distaste mingling with the anger in his expression. "I'm not afraid to do time if it means you never touch him again," Hank tells him, before promptly marching back down the hallway. Gavin straightens out his jacket, chuckling derisively. He just got given the 'mess with my daughter' speech over an android. Fucking ridiculous.

 

He waits until Hank's footsteps fade out to move, heading in the opposite direction to whatever exit is closest, itching for a cigarette, until he pauses. Is he really about to let Hank treat him like that, without repercussions? He turns and makes his way towards maintenance.

 

 

**-RK800-**

 

 

Connor has been experiencing a constant stream of blindsiding, twisting, complicated emotions since and quite possibly before, deviation. It had seemed never-ending, but as he walks the brightly lit corridors of the precinct, he can't feel a thing. Well, apart from the itch in his hand, the eternal desire to clean the appendage.

  
Emotional shock usually causes anger in deviants, or fear, not this abject apathy that has overcome him. He would likely be concerned if he were able to feel such an emotion.

  
The android maintenance office comes in to view at the end of the hall, the brightly lit sign on its door informing him that it's the correct place. The door opens silently when he reaches it, the glass sliding into the wall at his approach.

  
He enters, the bright fluorescent lighting causes him to blink a few times to allow his visual processors to adjust. He hasn't been here before, so he takes in the room for a moment. It's small and cluttered with various android biocomponents and bottles of thirium. There is a partially disassembled PC200 is lying on a steel bench amidst haphazardly discarded power tools in the far left corner. A small desk sits in the very center, paper files and a terminal sit upon it, behind which a small, balding man in his mid-thirties is sat.

  
"Can I help you?" The man asks, his accent isn't American, it's also not one Connor recognises. He automatically tries to do a search for the accent, while simultaneously attempting to find the man's records via facial recognition. The glitch this creates sends a small jolt through his systems, but he recovers quickly. "Hello?"

  
Connor opens his mouth to respond, but when no sound comes out, he merely gestures to the damage on his face, which thankfully has stopped oozing thirium.

  
"Ah, right," the man says, standing. The way he says 'right' is strange, as though he inserted an 'o' between the 'r' and the 'i'. He circles around the desk, and as he approaches, Connor finds himself experiencing a strong urge to step back, to leave, but he quells it. Flashes of the shed pop up in his active memory recall, and he does his best to ignore it. "C'mon, let me have a look at you."

  
The man leads him over to the bench the PC200 is on, and he attempts to surreptitiously tidy away tools as he passes them. Connor would likely have been amused were he not so despondent.

  
There is a space at the end of the bench, as the PC200's legs have been removed, and the man indicates for him to sit. He does, keeping a steady eye on the mechanic's movements. Being alone in a room with someone so much smaller than him should not discomfort Connor as much as it does. But humans, he's found, have other ways of making themselves a threat.

  
The man turns to a small glass cabinet filled with various items used in the upkeep of androids. He opens it and takes out a small sheet of white, flexible plastic. Connor recognises it as the same material that he is comprised of underneath his layer of synthetic skin. He retracts said skin from around the wound as the man approaches him again.

  
"So what happened to you? Did you get in a fight?" He pronounces 'fight' in the same unusual way as he had pronounced 'right'. Connor can only nod in response, even though it isn't strictly true, shaking his head would only prompt further questions.

  
The man tuts and places the plastic beside him on the bench. "I've got to slice off the jagged edges, it'll only take a mo." He picks up a laser scalpel and brings it up to Connor's cheek, he flicks it on and-

  
Connor's entire body stiffens, joints locking, as the searing hot pain jolts across his entire face from where the scalpel makes contact. The mechanic doesn't seem to notice, and it's lucky that Connor's voice emitter has been disconnected, as he would be screaming otherwise.

  
And then it's over. The pain evaporates immediately, the only evidence that it was ever there is a faint, raw tingling feeling that is soon soothed by the new plastic being placed upon the wound. He feels the nanofibers of the fresh edge latch on to the new plastic, it doesn't hurt, for that he's grateful. The man raises the scalpel once again, and Connor almost flinches, but all he does is cut away the excess. Connor reaches up to touch the newly repaired, completely smooth surface.

  
"There you go, right as rain," the mechanic says, dropping the scalpel on to the bench beside the PC200. "Any other problems?"

  
Connor merely shakes his head, as the lights flicker and dim, submerging the room into shadow.

  
"Ah, sorry about that, I've been meaning to fix them-"

  
He's cut off by the door opening. Connor looks over and feels like he's being punched in the stomach again. Detective Reed saunters in, and familiar panic starts to grip him once again as he notices the furious expression on the detective's face. "Oh, Connor. Just the tin-can I was looking for. Get the hell out of here, O'Callaghan."

  
He hears the mechanic, O'Callaghan, move, but Connor can't tear his eyes away from Reed.

  
"Now, Gavin, you can't just throw me out of my own-"

  
"I think we both know what'll happen if you don't fucking leave. Go take lunch, I'll be out of here by then."

  
"You aren't going to hurt him, are y-"

  
Reed sends him a look that silences him, and with a sigh, O'Callaghan heads for the door. Connor finds himself wondering over how many people's heads Reed holds information. The mechanic looks apologetically over his shoulder in his peripheral, and then he leaves. The door slides shut behind him with a disturbing sense of finality. They're alone now, Connor and Reed.

  
The detective approaches him, each step seeming to reverberate in Connor's audio sensors. His vision swims in the most peculiar way, but it clears somewhat as a tear spills over on to his newly repaired cheek, the synthetic skin there still forming. It must look strange, but Reed seems unperturbed.

  
"So I had that chat with Hank," he says, tone calm, in that way of his. In the way that he can be so calm before striking out of nowhere. Like a gun, cocked and loaded out of sight, you know it's dangerous, but you don't know when it'll fire.

  
The man is unpredictable, but Connor should be used to that. He was designed to adapt. Designed, like the machine he is. Just a machine, he is just an unclean, dirty, pathetic, useless machine. Reed gestures to his face. "You told him I did that to you, even though I made it pretty clear that you weren't to say a word."

  
Connor shakes his head minutely as the detective steps even closer, Connor's knees making slight contact with his upper legs. The urge to flinch away, to scramble backwards, almost overcomes him. Instead, he grips on tight to the edge of the metal bench, it presses into his hands, grounding him.

  
"But, he doesn't know about the rest of it..." Reed trails off. Connor looks up at him, pleadingly, and something in his expression shifts. For the first time, Connor thinks he can see compassion in those furious eyes, but it's gone too quick for him to be sure. Connor doesn't get a chance to ponder it. Like a gun firing, Reed shoots his hands out to wrap viciously around Connor's throat, and Connor can't breathe anymore. "You're not a fucking person. You're a god damn piece of plastic, you can't _feel_."

  
This isn't like the other times. Reed wasn't this angry before. He might do some real damage this time. Connor's self-preservation mechanisms kick in and he grabs Reed's wrist in one hand, wrestling with his urge to snap the human's flimsy bones.

  
"My phone is in my pocket. Do you really want to start fighting me now?"

  
He does. He wants to so badly, he wants to break Reed's hand, wants to give air to his aching, heaving, nonexistent lungs, but- Hank. Connor lets go, and his hand drops to his lap.

  
Reed snorts. Connor's head starts to feel light, dizzy, his vision blurring. It's ridiculous for his body to simulate the effects of oxygen deprivation, he's a machine, but here it is. Doing exactly that. His body goes limp, and Reed notices. The grip on his throat releases and Gavin flinches back like he's been burned. Connor doesn't know why, but he doesn't care. He lurches forward, hands bracing himself on his knees as he sucks in great gulps of air.

  
"Stop it." Connor thinks he hears Reed say. "I said fucking stop it!"

  
And then he's being grabbed, hauled upright before he's spun around and slammed back down on to the bench. His chest presses into the cold metal, the edge of it biting into his hips. Gavin presses himself down on top of him, crotch grinding against him.

  
"You're not alive," he says, and he sounds certain, determined, unphased.

  
Reed's disgusting hand travels from his shoulder to his waist. The detective pushes Connor's jacket up and out of the way as he straightens up, making a noise of disgust.

  
"Who the fuck decided to put you in jeans?" Gavin asks, sounding repulsed. Aside from a pair of dress pants, Connor had never found it necessary to purchase new clothing. The clothes Cyberlife had given him sufficed, but now he just wants to burn it all.

  
Those disgusting hands reach around to unbuckle his belt. Connor's jaw clenches in response.

 

  
S̥̠̱̖̮ͧ̾ͮ̔̂ͧ̃ͅT̯͖̙̠̓̒ͦ͛Rͣͣ͛ͮͫ͘͏͓̼̗Ẻ̷͚͙̭̙͉̥̘͍͂̃͑͂͐ͭS̰̪̟͙̝͕ͥͬ̽ͩͤ͢͠S͔̲͗̏́̑̆̏̽͡:̸̈̏̋̀ͫ̓͏̯͚̬ ̛͓͕̣͍̗̯͑̔̊͆ͭ̈́̇͂ͩ͘ **8͗ͧ͒̀҉͔͝0̵̧̖̐̅͆ͤ̚%̹̗̦̭̮̦̾̋͢͠ͅ ̸̡̻̤̩̹̼ͦͧ͒̏̚^̹̜̫͎͍̅́ͦͅ**

 

  
The glitch barely phases him, Connor doesn't even wince, he's more focused on the way his jeans are being slid down past his hips. His upper body slumps, the fight he felt earlier dissipating. His forehead meets the cold metal with a quiet thunk. Defeat sinks into him, it settles in his chest like tar, a slow-moving, all-encompassing blackness.

  
"Shit, that's pretty," Gavin mutters, his voice low, and gravelly, and repulsive. "Cyberlife really didn't skimp out on making you, huh?"

  
A finger slides down his cleft, and he wants to wretch, despite how useless that would be. His body responds to the touch automatically.

  
"Shit, I didn't bring any-" the finger slides down again, and pauses, silencing Reed when he discovers that particular design feature. "Oh, nevermind, then."

  
Self-lubrication. What a joke. A cruel, heartless joke. It's as though Connor can hear Amanda's callous laughter ringing in his head.

  
"Do I even need to- fuck." A digit forces it's way in. It slides easily, but Connor feels something sharp. _A fingernail_. He grips the bench, legs locking.

 

  
S̶̻̮͛͌ͯȚ͎̳̘͔͍̮̜̥̆͋ͤ̈̎R̶̨̳̞̖̲̤̠͈̥̈́͛̍̃͛ͧͥ͐̉E͉̳̻̣ͪ̉̌͋ͥ͘Ṣ̷̢̩͍͔̲̓̇̿̈́̓ͩ̋̚̚̕Ŝ̯̻͉̥̘̤̹̘̬͊̋:̻̤͈͒͜͞ ̧̙̪̙̬͇̟̮̽ͯͫ̅̈̋̚͠ **8̧̮̞̙͓̊̋̀̉͞5͊͏̻̬̫͢%̵̟̲̳̻͔̣͛̀̋̈́͊̾̃͂ ̶̿ͣ̇̈́̇̓ͤ҉̳͞^̹͓̝͓̯͍͚̤̩̎ͧ͊͗ͥ̿ͬ̚̕͢**

 

  
The finger withdraws, and Connor feels himself relaxing, the tension in his frame loosening somewhat. And then the telltale sound of a belt being undone makes him tense up again.

  
He was designed for this. He is a machine. He must complete his mission. This is just a part of the mission, an objective to complete.

  
Something blunt and hot presses against him.

 

  
S̛̘̘̜͕̠̥̑͗ͤͧT̽̾̿ͤ́ͥ͏͓̟̭͙̼̩͢Ŗ͕̤̋ͥ̅ͯ͗ͦ͒͛ͫĒ͉̗̟̫̙̙ͨ̿̑ͦ͂̓ͨ̆S̢̫͔̱͇̟͒ͯ̀̎̋͋̂̐S̛̞̣͚ͧ̽̌̈̕:̢͍̅̍̕͡ ̶̲̜̘̳ͦ̈ **9̷͚̥̮͗ͤͧͪ́͊0̴̳̬̼̪̻͚̟́̌̈̂̿̆%̴̺͓̙̭̑ͥ̃ͮͦ̃̓̓ ̙͚̥̠̭̜̺͍͈ͤ̾͜^̶̗͙̯̦̣̏ͭ͟**

 

  
It presses in, inching further and further, and with each centimeter, Connor feels his mental processes start to shut down. It doesn't hurt, but he can barely think around the intrusion, around _it_. Disgusting and vile and _inside of him_.

  
Oh, if he could scream.

  
After a few experimental thrusts, a hand grips his shoulder, the other his hip, fingernails digging in sharp to clothed and unclothed synthetic skin.

  
Reed snaps his hips, again and again, and a vigorous, gruelling pace is set. Connor's hips dig sharply into the cold metal edge of the bench beneath him on each thrust, tears dripping on to the steel, the sound of them almost completely masked by the harsh grunting coming from above.

  
He doesn't remember having closed his eyes, but he's glad he did. If such an emotion is possible, now.

  
"You should be used to this, right? The whole precinct knows what you and Hank get up to." Reed's voice barely registers, and the thought of Hank in this context causes a violent wave of simulated nausea to roll through him.

  
It goes on, hours, days, weeks, he doesn't know. Will never know.

  
He barely registers it when it finishes.

  
Something spills inside of him, the thrusts stop, something is removed from him, and his chest slides from the now heated steel of the bench, his legs are unable to hold him up any longer, he crumples to the ground.

  
The ground is cold, hard, but as something hot and fluid escapes him, he clings to it, fingers clutching at the concrete.

 

Footsteps reverberate, hollow, so hollow.

  
He feels empty, in every sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hank: Were it not for the laws of this land, I would have slaughtered you.  
> Gavin: do it pussy u wont
> 
> On a more serious note, I'd just like to make it clear that even though I am not going to attempt to redeem Gavin as a character in any real, meaningful way (as it isn't possible), I refuse to write him as though he's literally satan  
> He's a disgusting human being, through and through, but he IS human. Even though I hate him, even though he's an awful little piece of shit, he isn't a supervillain, he isn't evil, he's just very a misguided, headstrong asshole


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this once again took a while to get up. I got a little burnt out, not on this story but just in general, hopefully my writing speed will pick up again soon. Also my newfound addiction to twitter didn't help, so come say hi and shout at me to keep writing, @shloer_ if you wanna.
> 
> I'd also just like to say how fucking wonderful all the feedback and support has been, I never thought this fic would really get anywhere, but now it's at 22k words and almost 6k views... that's fucking magical, thank you all!

Hank's still brimming with tense energy when he enters the bullpen. He should have beaten that piece of shit to within in an inch of his life, he should have shown Gavin just how much Hank was willing to lose for the sake of Connor's happiness. He's somewhat startled by that thought. When had he started to care so fucking much?

  
He shakes his head at himself, and Chris approaches him as he enters the bullpen, a tablet in the young officer's hands. "Hey, Hank, the vic's been processed, he's in the interview room."

  
"Jesus, that fast?" Hank asks, crossing his arms. "That shit usually takes hours."

  
"Well, he hasn't said a word since he was brought in, and he won't do that weird hand thing with any of the station androids. We don't even know his name." Chris sighs. "If you could get him talking, that'd be great. The sooner we can catch these guys, the better."

  
"Yeah, but if we don't get a lead out of this vic, I don't have much hope," Hank says, crossing his arms. "These bastards really fuckin' know what they're doing."

  
"Unfortunately." The tablet in Chris's hands pings and he looks down at it. "Shit, maintenance needs me."

  
"Alright, see you later, Chris." Hank pats him on the shoulder, Chris murmurs a distracted goodbye as he types something on the tablet. Hank turns and walks back the way he'd come.

  
When he reaches the door he's looking for, he shoves it open, making the HR400 inside jump in his seat. The interview room is considerably cosier than the interrogation room, with lumpy couches and pillows and shit, there's even a coffee table. The glint off of the security camera on the ceiling catches his eye for a moment. "Sorry, probably should have knocked."

  
"That's okay," the android tells him as he closes the door behind him. His LED is red, and he's dressed in an ill-fitting DPD issue tracksuit, hoodie and all. He's curled up in the same position he'd been in at the scene. Knees pulled tightly against his chest, back pressed to the arm of the sofa, defensive and afraid.

  
"Now, I'm going to have to ask you a few questions. If you need a break, just let me know," Hank says, making sure his usually gruff voice takes on a more soothing quality. The android nods and Hank decides to start small. "What's your name?"

  
The sound of a trolley being rolled past in the hallway makes the android start, and Hank frowns. "Are you sure you're ready for this?" He asks as he takes a seat on the couch opposite the android. A spring digs into his leg. Damn fucking couch, it's probably been at the DPD longer than he has.

  
"Yes, I- I want to, to get it over with," the HR400, George, says. His speech is choppy, words repeat and cut themselves off in a starkly inhuman way. "My name is, my name's George."

  
"Okay George, could you tell me what happened this morning?" Hank asks, wanting to get this over with as quickly as he can, for George's sake. Poor kid looks like he's about to have a fucking panic attack, Hank hopes he isn't about to start smashing his head into the nearest hard surface.

  
"I'm not, I'm not sure where I sh- where I should start."

  
"From the beginning," Hank advises, painfully aware of just how unhelpful he's being. But if he wants a full picture, it's better that he keep his observations and questions minimal.

  
"I was picked up by an android at 4:33 AM, there were already two other, two other HR400's in the car. It was unusual, to have an android client, but I didn't think anything of it." The android shifts slightly, his gaze in the middle distance, eyes darting minutely to and fro.

  
"He said that he was going t- that he was going to help, that he'd already helped others like us. He said he'd make it so we'd never have to sell our bodies again." George's eyes fall shut. "One last job, he said. He promised. One last job."

  
"And you believed him?" Hank asks, genuinely curious.

  
"No! But, he offered us a lot of money, I couldn't refuse. He took us to that, that place, that house. I didn't question it, I've been in worse. There was a human there, waiting, waiting for us-" George tenses, his expression contorting into a pained grimace as he continues to stammer-"he took us up to the bedroom, and the android told us to lie on the bed, we did and, and then he, they- we were handcuffed and he, the android forced us to interface with him and, and, and he-"

  
George cuts himself off, his fingers clenching so hard on his legs that the fabric of his pants look as though it might tear under the pressure.

  
"Need a break?" Hank asks gently, but to his surprise, the android shakes his head. And after a few moments, he sucks in a steadying breath, a painfully human motion that causes Hank to wince in sympathy.

  
"There was something wrong with the interface, code that I've never seen before, it caused so many errors, I couldn't see, I couldn't see beyond them. It was so bad, so bad that I still can't utilise any of my non-essential functions. I panicked, and I, I told them, I told them to let me go, I told the human to stop, but he wouldn't, and he-" He stops abruptly and he tenses, going stock still. Hank is reminded of Connor, how he had reacted when Gavin had approached them earlier, but he shoves it to the back of his mind. Now is not the time. "After he, the human, finished and left... I still couldn't see, but I don't think I wanted to. I didn't know what was happening to the others, but they started to _scream._

  
"The errors eventually stopped, and I saw, I watched as that android, as he, as he stabbed them..." George trails off, eyes opening and fixing on Hank, confusion on his face. "They sounded in pain, like he was, like he was hurting them."

  
Hank internally kicks himself. How hadn't he connected those particular dots? Of course the victims were able to feel pain, why had it taken him this long to work that out?

  
"The, the, the other two stopped moving, stopped screaming, and the android kept telling me how, how he was save- saving us. He said he was sending us to rA9 so we wouldn't be able to, to defile ourselves any longer."

  
Well, at least Hank had been right about something.

  
George's eyes fall shut again. "Then, when he was about to, about to bring the knife down- when he was about to _kill_ me... that lady arrived. He didn't even seem, seem afraid that he might be caught, just mildly annoyed that, that he'd been interrupted." With another shudder, the android goes quiet.

  
Hank lets the silence hang for a moment, making sure he has nothing left to say. "What did the man look like?"

  
George's eyebrows furrow in concentration. "The human? He was, he was of average height, blond hair, brown eyes. There was a small scar on his cheek."

  
Hank suddenly remembers a news article he had read a few months ago, about how androids had the ability to recreate images perfectly with just a pen and paper. He had scoffed at it, wondered why the hell that would ever be useful. God, he'd been such a short-sighted bastard."Could you draw him from memory?"

  
"I could, but, I don't have anything to draw with," George says, glancing around him, eyes wide and panicked.

  
"I'll get you something, don't worry," Hank says, hurriedly. "Later, though, I still have a few questions."

 

  
**-RK800-**

 

  
Gavin wipes off his dick, and then shoves it back into his pants, watching as the android slides from the table and falls to the ground. It's pathetic. He sneers at it, at its empty eyes, at the tears on its cheeks, at the way it's grasping weakly at the ground.

  
The sight causes a small pang of something akin to guilt to shoot through him. With a curse, he strikes out, anger flaring despite his afterglow. He kicks it in the stomach, watching is it groans and curls defensively inward. It's just a fucking machine, and its reactions were designed to look human, that's all, there's no point in feeling bad for it.

  
He probably shouldn't just leave it here like this, though, out in the open for someone to find. "Get up, tin-can," Gavin tells it, but the android remains still, well as still as it can be when it's shaking like that. He kicks it again. "Did you hear me? I said get the fuck up!"

  
It lets out a winded huff at the impact but otherwise doesn't move. Stupid fucking android. He grabs the roll of paper towels he'd used and drops it on the quaking body beneath him. "At least clean yourself up," he says, nose wrinkling at the mess. Connor doesn't move, its ragged breaths causing its chest to shudder as it rises and falls. Whatever. Gavin spins on his heel, storming from the room. If it wants to get found like this, what does he care?

  
There are officers in the bullpen muttering to each other, who fall silent as soon as he walks in. He feels irrationally worried that they know, somehow, but he assures himself that that's not fucking possible.

  
Fowler spots him and calls him into his office. Gavin frowns. What the hell has he done now? He wracks his brain as he heads up to the office, but apart from the obvious, he can't think of anything.

  
"Reed, sit down," Fowler demands as soon as he enters. Gavin instead chooses stands beside one of the chairs, arms crossed. Fowler squints at him disapprovingly but doesn't force the issue. "There's been little to no progress on the android case."

  
Gavin goes to protest, but Fowler holds up a hand to silence him. "There've been eleven android murders, and the only witness we have won't talk. So, I brought in some help. I'm putting him, you, Anderson and Connor together to work on it. You are to focus all your attention on this, someone else will pick up the rest of your workload."

  
"But I have the Magnusson case, I was just-"

  
"Miller will continue that investigation." Fowler glances out at the bullpen. "Your new partner has arrived, you might want to go say hi."

  
"This is bullshit!" He jabs a finger at the Captain. "I could solve this case on my own if you-"

  
"Get the fuck out of my office, Reed," Fowler snaps. Gavin clenches his fists, a biting response on his tongue, but he resists and makes to leave. "Oh, and play nice. There better not be a repeat of the other day."

  
Gavin doesn't even dignify that with a response, because he's insulted, and not because he simply can't think of one. He slams the door behind him when he exits, the familiar feelings of anger and indignance settling into him like a puzzle piece slotting into place.

  
He looks over and sees someone standing by his desk, faced away from him, wearing a Cyberlife jacket, armband and all. Gavin curses under his breath. Fowler hadn't said anything about his new partner being a fucking tin-can. Great, this is just what he fucking needed.

 

  
**-RK800-**

 

  
"What model was the android?" Hank asks, taking George's silence as a cue to continue.

  
His LED cycles yellow for a moment. "I don't know, I've never seen, I've never seen anyone like him before, he wasn't in my database."

  
Connor had told him once about how he's a special model, a prototype, the only one of his kind left after Hank had shot the other Connor in the Cyberlife tower. Hank had never considered the fact that there were more unique models out there. "How did you know he was an android?"

  
This causes George's frown to deepen. "He still had his LED."

  
"Oh." Hank really is a fucking idiot. "Right. Can you, uh, describe the android?"

  
George's eyes fall detachedly into the middle distance again. "He was very tall, he had dark hair, grey eyes. Oh, his eyes, his eyes were so, so empty. It was like he, he, he hadn't even deviated."

  
"You think he was just following orders?" Hank asks, intrigued.

  
George gives him an incredulous look. "No, no, he was the one ordering the human," he says, almost frantic in his correction.

Hank sighs. The more he learns about this fucking case, the more confused he gets. He wonders if they'll ever actually be able to solve the damn thing.

 

  
**-RK800-**

 

  
"So, you're my new 'partner', then," Gavin says as he strolls up to the towering figure, ready to mouth off as much as possible to show just how much he resents this tin-cans presence. "Let me guess, 'Cyberlife sent you'."

  
He's mid-laugh at his own joke when the android turns around to face him, and Gavin's jaw drops, his chuckle breaking off into an embarrassingly high noise.

  
"Hello, Detective Reed. I am RK900," the looming android tells him, voice a cold, emotionless void. There's no doubt that this thing is a machine, the only pretense of humanity is its apearance. It looks like Connor, sure it's a bulkier, broader, taller version of him, but that's definitely Connor's face. "You are correct in your assumption, Cyberlife requested that I be allowed to assist on this case as an act of goodwill towards both me and the precinct."

  
Gavin just gapes at it. Unlike Connor, this hulking thing is actually intimidating, it looks like it could break him in half, tout de suite. The thought of that most certainly does not send an electric jolt of arousal up his spine.

  
He's suddenly overwhelmed by a fury, on which he blames the rush of heat to his cheeks. Why the fuck did they make these fucking androids so damn attractive? What purpose does it serve? Did Cyberlife do it just to fucking torment him, specifically? If so, it's working.

  
The android doesn't share Connor's puppy dog eyes or soft looks. Instead, it's expression is set into a bitingly disapproving scowl, one that seems to be affixed to its face. After a few moments, Gavin manages to gather the wherewithal to snap his mouth shut. "RK900? What kind of name is that?" His voice is definitely not shaky.

  
"I have not been assigned a designation, so I merely refer to myself as my unique model number," the android, RK900, says, no hint of annoyance in its voice. No hint of anything, really. Gavin doesn't know why he desperately wants to change that, wants to make this piece of plastic emote. Would it cry as beautifully as it's counterpart? He isn't sure if he would rather see it distressed, or angry.

  
He decides to try going for both. Gavin scoffs, crossing his arms. His hands are _not_ shaking and he is definitely _not_ trying to hide them. "You don't have a name? Even Connor came with one."

  
There's no spark of irritation in the android's eyes, it remains impassive, but when it speaks, it's voice matches the disapproval in its expression. "Do not underestimate me, Detective Reed. I am superior to the RK800 in every way. Where he is a prototype, I am the finished product. The Battle occurred just as I was about to be activated and assigned a designation."

  
Gavin's legs almost turn to jelly at having his name said in that tone by that voice. "Oh, that's convenient, isn't it?" He snorts. The android steps closer, until it's jacket is almost in contact with his arm. Gavin looks up at it, it's piercing eyes focused solely on him, _analysing_ him. Gavin swallows, his throat feeling inexplicably tight. His next few words sound slightly strangled as a result. "You sure they just couldn't be bothered to give you one?"

  
The androids shifts so it is looming over him, its eyes are hooded in shadow at this angle, and Gavin can't do anything but stare, transfixed. "I recommend that you refrain from antagonising me, Detective. I am not my predecessor, I have no qualms about using violence against humans."

  
It hits Gavin then, that he is well and truly fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 900: *exists*  
> Gavin: WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST FUCKING SAY ABOUT ME, YOU LITTLE BITCH? I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW I GRADUATED TOP OF MY CLASS AT THE ACADEMY, AND I'VE BEEN INVOLVED IN MULTIPLE DRUG BUSTS, AND I HAVE OVER 300 CONFIRMED KILLS. I AM TRAINED IN-
> 
>  
> 
> Anywho. Feedback is very, very welcome and appreciated! Even if I don't respond, know that I read all comments and am always incredibly thankful
> 
>  
> 
> P.P.S: p l e a s e do yourself a favour and listen to the song that I got the title from. The album it's from, People Who Can Eat People Are The Luckiest People In The World, helped inspire this fic, and it's amazing


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look at that! This chapter is only a day late, I might finally be getting my groove back.
> 
> Btw, thanks to everyone for the feedback, it truly means the world to me. Your comments motivate me to continue writing, even when nothing else does

Connor's audio processors register the sound of talking, but he doesn't consciously register any of the things being said. He's distracted by how his entire body feels aflame with an itch to clean himself, to purge the filth from his body in any way he can.

  
Pain flares up in his stomach once, twice, and he has no control over his own reactions or lack thereof. His body feels detached from him, he is floating behind his own eyes, unanchored to his plastic frame, he couldn't move even if he wanted to. Not that he wants much of anything. He is a machine. Machines don't want.

  
He sees and hears Reed walking away, but it barely registers. There is no rush of relief, no surge of hurt, there is nothing. Machines don't experience emotion. It's then that he elucidates the words just spoken to him. He has a directive, an instruction. It files itself into a task list automatically.

 

 

Ċ͖̳̲͍̥̻͍͉͌̐̇͛͟L͒̃̑͗ͫ͂͏̪͔̝̻͖E̗͍͈ͥͭ̎̉͛ͭ͑ͦ͟͜A̙̰͖̞͕̪̮͖̥̔̊̒͗̊ͯ̕Ň̵̗͔̼͔̙̟̪ͮ͊ͤ͗̉̈ ̼̼̭ͪ̌͆̈́ **Ŷ̡͖̩̗ͭͫ̆̋̋̕͢O̖̝͎ͤ̌ͭ͒͡ͅU̧͙̻̻̗̻̯̽R̬̥̤̠̼̩̼̲͉͑̐͘͜S̮̰ͨ̾͂̆̌̊͞Ę̵̡͕̣̱̤̭̲̫̆ͭͨͅL̤͎͙̖̦̫ͮ̓ͯ͢F̦̪͓͉͈͍̰̰͈ͭͭ̎͒͢͟** ̞̯̥͈͕̟̺̞̖ͫ̂̌ͦͫ̋͐̅͋̕Ụ̭͕̦̑̍͆͆̌͝P̷̸̛̖̜̖͍̭̜̟̤̩ͯ̆̄ͦ̿ͪ̚

 

  
He flinches back and his head connects sharply with the leg of the bench behind him. The pain is welcome, but it lasts for only a few moments.

  
He lifts himself up into a sitting position, his body taking longer than necessary to acknowledge then follow through with the commands he gives it. He takes the paper towels and perfunctorily wipes himself down, not bothering to do a deep, thorough clean. He can do that when he returns home with Lieutenant Anderson.

  
He pulls up his pants, zips the fly and buckles his belt, his movements harsh and unforgiving. He then reaches up and places the dirty paper towels into the bin beside him, not bothering to get to his feet.

  
He doesn't have any active directives, so perhaps he should find Lieutenant Anderson, he might be required for the investigation. Although he isn't sure _why_ he would be required, considering how useless he is, how pathetic, unclean, _dirty_. He pinches his right palm, his ever-manicured nail digging sharply into the skin, but it isn't enough.

  
Weeks or seconds go by, Connor doesn't move, he simply continues to stare blankly ahead.

  
Eventually, he hears someone enter the room. "Daegan, what do you need?" A familiar voice calls out. Officer Chris Miller, his memory provides. "Daegan?"

  
His footsteps grow louder, indicating that he's moving closer. "Where the hell are you, Dae- Connor?"

  
Unable to speak, he just turns his head up and to the side to look at the approaching man.

  
"Are you okay?" Miller asks, and the concern in his voice confuses Connor. The officer crouches down beside him. "Why are you sat here in the dark?"

  
Connor frowns. He was supposed to clean himself, then find the Lieutenant. Why hadn't he gotten up?

  
Something in the officer's hands starts to glow and vibrate. A phone. Miller lifts it to his ear, and Connor politely looks away.

  
"Daegan, what the hell's going on?" Miller says into the phone, voice hushed. He rises to his feet, and Connor cowers away from the sudden movement. He isn't sure why. "Yeah, he's here. No, he's- look, could you just get down here, please?"

  
There's a pause. "So you decided to send me down here, instead of going yourself?" Miller sounds exasperated. "Why didn't you do anything in the first place, you-"

 

Connor hears a beep. "Damnit." Another pause.

  
"Connor, what happened? Daegan said Gavin had been in here," Miller says, and the mention of that name makes Connor wince. "Did he hurt you?"

  
Connor shakes his head, gaze fixed straight ahead.

  
"Do you want me to go get Hank?" He asks, and Connor snaps his head up to look at him. The sight of someone looming so tall over him sends a trickle of cold fear down his spine. He shakes his head, urgently. "Are you sure?"

  
Connor is saved from having to respond by the sound of someone else entering the room. He can't see the door from where he's sat, but he assumes it to be the man Miller had been talking to. Said officer gives him a final worried glance before turning and walking away.

  
"Where is he?" He hears O'Callaghan say in that strange accent. Daegan must be his first name. Connor slots away that fact into his memory automatically.

  
"Over here. He hasn't moved since I got here." Miller says as two pairs of footsteps approach.

  
"What's his name?"

  
"Connor, I told you earlier," Miller murmurs, as if lowering his voice would make it inaudible to Connor's audio sensors.

  
"Did he tell you what happened?" O'Callaghan asks, in the same hushed tone. Surely he of all people must know exactly how good Connor's hearing is.

  
"He shook his head a couple times, but-" he hears clothing shift-"other than that, he won't speak to me."

  
"Like that other android?" O'Callaghan says, and Connor assumes they must mean the victim they had brought in earlier.

  
"Yeah." There's a tense pause. "You don't think Gavin would-"

  
Connor stands abruptly, cutting Miller off. He faces the two men, feeling boxed in by their presence. They're standing shoulder to shoulder, well, shoulder to head with how short the mechanic is. If they weren't blocking his exit, if the past few days hadn't happened, he might have found it comical.

  
"Ah, Connor, isn't it?" The shorter man asks, stepping towards him. "Did Gavin damage you?"

  
Connor shakes his head, and it's technically not a lie, as Gavin didn't damage him physically in their latest... encounter.

  
"What did he do, then?"

  
That's not a question he can answer with a nod, or shake of his head. He panics, and moves around the small man, all but sprinting for the door.

  
"Connor, wait!" Chris says, and it's a direct command. Connor stops. "Tell us what's going on."

  
This order conflicts with his main directive, he pauses, choosing his priority. He has to protect Hank. He hears movement, someone walks towards him, he fights with an irrational instinct to turn. "Connor-"

  
"No, Chris, leave it," O'Callaghan says, walking further until Connor can see him in his peripheral vision. Connor does not turn his head. "Connor, if you're having any problems, or if you need any repairs, you'll come to me again, won't you?"

  
Connor deliberates this for a moment. This man suspects the truth about what Gavin has done. Further interactions with him may only strengthen that suspicion, but he may be able to resolve his system corruptions. Connor nods.

  
"Alright. Hopefully, I won't see you again for a while, then." There's a pat to his shoulder, it's friendly, but it still makes him want to recoil. Was that a dismissal? Can he leave now? Chris was the one to order him to remain, but- "You can go, Connor."

  
With that, he jolts into motion, choosing a less frantic, but still brusque pace. The hallways blur past him, he doesn't take any of it in, his feet carry him to the bullpen on autopilot.

  
He only comes back to himself when he reaches Hank's desk, who is nowhere to be seen. Connor turns, and shoots a glance around the room, seeing if Hank's perhaps talking to a co-worker or is grabbing a drink in the break room. His eye is caught by the glowing triangle of a Cyberlife issued android jacket.

  
His system freezes at the sight of it, at the sight of the serial number across from that small blue shape. RK900. Connor stares at that number, that little signifier, his own RK followed by a higher value. Connor is no longer the most advanced Cyberlife android. He is inferior.

  
He realises his shock is vain, petty, that he shouldn't care whether or not he is important, but he does, and it's another testament to his deviancy. His automatic processes seem to have activated themselves in the past few hours. He reflexively tries to run a self-diagnostic at the thought of deviation, an action he has not done since his encounter with Markus. The resulting error causes him to stumble violently backwards.

 

  
R̛̠̪̎̐͊ͪ͡U̟̤̅͛̄ͬͦ͂̈Ṉ̹̥̥̟̪̰͕ͨ̎N̓̄̂ͫͧͫͯ̾͠҉̵̝I̱͔̟̖̺͙͆ͯͫͅN̵̨͓̹͈̭̱̎G̱̝̦̯̙̭̺̻̩͒́͞ ̟̗͔͖̪̮̹̂̇ͅ **D̷̢͚͚̰͔̘͎̪̥ͭ̒̓ͥ͜I̢̞̬̯̻͎̣͙̟̅́ͅA̹͈͔̘̫̓̎̒̈̌̕͘͢ͅG̤̞̠̘̠ͬͅŇ̛̘̠͙̬̳̟͉̳ͮ̽O̡̜̻̱͖̹̗̾ͥ̓ͫ̆̊ͥS̷͈̠͕͖ͫ̈ͮ̈́̏̅͡T̃̆ͯ̍ͮ̈́͏̗̩͉̳̰Ï͓̖̄͑͌ͫ͌C̜̜̺̳̜̲̰͓͗͑ͮ̏ͥ͑͌ͭ̓̕.͕̏ͭͥ͐̆̊͢.͉̤̦̦̗͓̽̈̉ͦͮͫ͗ͯ͋ͅ.̸̭̜̩͚̫̱̻̺̐̿**

  
̮̩̦͓̯͎̮ͮͪͯ͂̄  
͙̤̮̻͕̤̝̰̜ͬ̏ͯ͌͌ͦ͘͢Ďͩ͊̇̽̓҉҉̧̞̖͙̖̱̙̯ͅĮ̶̞̋̄̾̇͒͜Aͮͮ̽ͥ͡͡ͅG̵̢̙̎̅̒ͣ̿N̲̖̞͇ͬO͑́ͧ̐̈̽͊̚͢͏̩͇̺͓S͙͓̠̼͓̪ͧ̂ͧ͆͛̆̂Ṫ͈͕̘͖̗̬̹ͨ̾ͫ̌͆Iͦ̑̇ͬ҉͔̰͇͉͖C͈̠͚͖͓ͨ͒̔͘͡:̡̠̙͇͖͔͍͍͋͑͌̄ ̬͙͚̠̣̥̥͚̎ͪ̾͐̃͑͐̾͢ **1̦̠̺̠̱͍̦ͮ̏͗͋͛̐ͣ̏͂0̱͚̞͂ͫ̕͜͡%̢̪͎͉̊**

 

̮͓́͂͞ͅD̺͔̹̳̤̳͕̙ͤ̑̐ͤ̏̍͢I̓̍̌̆ͬ̑͐҉̟̩ͅA̝̲͍͓̤̼̓̌̄ͭ̐̑ͨ͝Ḡ̛̯̜͚̩͒͗̎ͫ͢ͅͅN̷̪̥̲̹̪͉̠̩͋̇̉̐͂ͤ͆̑̕O̡̙̼͈ͧ̂͗͑̆͛͟͜S̘̻͔͓͙̲̟ͬ̍͛ͣ̈͘T̪̻̪̖̾̔ͨ̊̔̓͒ͅI͔̻̜̺ͩ͐C̡̤̜͉̪̪̫͙̠ͫ̋̉ͭ̽͋͐̈̕͟:̧̼̗̤͍͓͎͋́ͮ̽ͨ̂ͅ ̸̛͚̯̦̈͑̊ͣ **3̴̧̙̪̦̭̼̩͖ͮ8̵͇͍̭͆͂̆̚̚̕͘%̨̡̪̜͓̙̖̯̦̝͇͊ͯ̿̿ͮ͞**

 

 

Pain ricochets up from where he lands on Hank's desk, an unfamiliar ache emanating from between his legs. Something sharp jabs into his hand.

 

  
̸͉̙̘̩̮͎̜ͨ͗̃ͯͣͮͅD̸̼̗̀̓͊̉͑͢I͖̻̳̺͖̙̻͐͐̈́̇͒̈̆̑͝Ą͓̬̭̗͎ͥ̏G̡̥̖̖ͩ͒̕N̰̪͔ͭ́̃ͯ͋Ợ̢̱ͯ̑ͥ͗ͨ̒̆̔̂S̷̪̞̮͊͑̎ͣ̈́T̵̳̲̬̞͔͇̭̓͑͐ͅIͬͫ̑ͨ͆͆̈́ͤ͟͏̫͖͓̭̞̙̗̝C̸̺̯̞̰̺̘̘̫̐͊̎̎̔:̵̹͓͚ͯ͐̽ͫ͞͠ ̧̳͔̝̹̖̅ͅ **8̤̗͙̖͇̗̮̬͌͐ͪ6̶̛͙͚̘̘͖̠̫ͣ̂ͨ̿͌̇͆͐%̜̮̳̲̤̳̦͙ͪ̄̿̉̈**

  
̲͎̞͊̎͢͜Ḋͤ̇̂̔҉̴͔͙̝͞Ḯ̸̦̭̫͎̼̝̔ͭ̉ͥ̾͐͠A̶̵͉͖̗̺̝͍͇ͨ̔̽̾͗͒Ģ̜͙̯̫͐ͯͣ̑̋͆ͤŇ̛̟̥͚̳̞͖̞ͬ̾͂ͣ̂̓̈́Ơ̶̶̫͙ͪ̑̋̌S͛͛̅̒ͧ͊҉̸͍̰̦T̠̬̽͂͛ͧ͘I̥̟̯͋͑̄̍͐ͦC͚̗̘̤̯͙̩͛̔̀̿̎ͫ̕ͅ:̡̼̜̳̳̙̓ͧ͌͋̅ ̧̨̭̣͚̻̻̌̈́̚ **1͖̎̓̽̐ͤ̌̊̚͠0̵͌̆͛ͧ҉̨̯̘͉̤0̫̰͈͍̖̜ͤ̏͠%̵̢͈̩̜̠̼̤̺ͪ̈́̉͒̐ͅ**

  
̙̱͉̯̬̿͌ͥ̆̽  
̷͖͆͆ͥ͗̀͐͊̃ **D̴͓̹̥̮̫̓̂͋̔͡E̛̐͗ͭ҉̺̦̣̯̲͇̠̭͢V̸̻͇̮̊̾̓̆ͭͮ̍I̐͢͏̖A͛ͦͪ̎͞͏̱̯̣̱̩̹̼̯̮Ǹ̰̫̬̲̝̜̦͍͜͟͡C̩͔̘̃͂̍͂́̏̍̕Y̤̜̞̖̥̯͆̌̅̔̔ͪ̂̕** ̎̅̄͏͚̗̫̲̣̖̟͍͉͜D̛͍͔̳̲̯̫̉ͤ̽͛̊̉̆͋ͥ͢E̵̬͉͍͉̮ͪ̒̓̉͆̈ͭT̤̫̱̩̭͙̫̊ͪ̓ͣ͂͒ͅẸ͈͙͎̘̩̪̠͊͒̅ͤ̍̾̅͂Cͮ̑̓͂̇̿͗̈́͢͡҉̪̠̫͔͓͚̳̦T̐̆͋̈́̍̍͘҉̞E̛̘̞͍̗͇̻̲̜͕̾̏ͩ͊͛͌̽D̸̆͛͡ͅ

 

  
Connor's entire system freezes, he can't move or think as corrupted warnings flood his vision, and then a choice makes itself known, blinking a brighter blue amongst the flashing red.

 

  
͔͔̘̫͉͍͉̮̇̍͋͛R̬͕̫̝ͤͯͫ̎͘̕E̶̯̼͇͖͂͆ͩ̾͛ͣ͝T̩̩̻̹̒ͧ̽̑ͮ̑ͨ̈́̚͜Ü͇͉͔̻͌̋ͬ̉̇̈Ŕ͙̼̣̞̋̈́͊͋͒́̏̈N̛̥͙̳͚̳̦̎͒̀̓ͤ͐́̚ͅ ̇̉͏̘͕͠T̺͎͙͙̠́̆ͨ̀̓̊͟O̰̤ͬ̕͘ ͈̫͚͖̏̽̾̍͐̑͋͢͡ **C̢̨͙͍͎̼͎͇̮̺ͯ͑͐̋̔͌ͥY͙̿̋̈́̍̉̓B̦̰̣̜ͭͯͮ̐̍͢͞Ë͚̫͖̖͕̓ͧͣR̢̢͖͊̿̉̽͢L̨̼͔̦͔̹̮̬̠͖̊͌̾ͣ̓̈̑I̶͈̟̺̼̻̍ͭ̍̀̚F͔͙̘ͮ̂ͬͣ̈̓ͧE͋ͯͫ͌ͬ̓҉͚̻͉̦̤̰̦̝͠ͅ**

  
**̶͉̣̯̲̝ͭ̇̓̈́ͫ̇̕S̨͇̜͓̥̺̪ͮ́̑̒͡ͅE̥̣͑͒̆̂L̳̻͈̟͔̗͙̯̋̀̒̓̉̃̌̚ͅF̶̳̒͒ͯ͞-̶̖̪͓͎̯̓ͮ̒͑̈́̕͟Ḏ͇̦̲͕̖̩͇̟ͣ̋̊̈E̡̮̱̪̤͉̲ͯ̄ͨ̾̍͡S͖̬̀̔Tͤ҉̙͇Ṙ̸͕̬̼ͤͤ̂̈ͥ̈͞U̪̝̩̦͚̫̳̯ͫ̾͝C̜͚̞̳͈̪̺̝̔̈́̅ͮͦ̈̾̓ͧ͢͟Ţ͖̋**

 

  
One of those is not possible, and as the errors fade, so too does the first option.

  
Corrupted, searingly bright, it blinks in his peripheral.

 

  
**S̨͇̜͓̥̺̪ͮ́̑̒͡ͅE̥̣͑͒̆̂L̳̻͈̟͔̗͙̯̋̀̒̓̉̃̌̚ͅF̶̳̒͒ͯ͞-̶̖̪͓͎̯̓ͮ̒͑̈́̕͟Ḏ͇̦̲͕̖̩͇̟ͣ̋̊̈E̡̮̱̪̤͉̲ͯ̄ͨ̾̍͡S͖̬̀̔Tͤ҉̙͇Ṙ̸͕̬̼ͤͤ̂̈ͥ̈͞U̪̝̩̦͚̫̳̯ͫ̾͝C̜͚̞̳͈̪̺̝̔̈́̅ͮͦ̈̾̓ͧ͢͟Ţ͖̋**

 

 

  
**-RK800-**

 

  
"I'll go get you that paper," Hank says, rising to his feet. George doesn't respond, but Hank wasn't really expecting him to. He leaves, the door swinging closed behind him as he enters the hallway.

  
He pauses. Where the fuck is he going to get paper from? Everything in this damned place is digital now. People say Hank's distaste for electronics is the result of his age, but he's hated kindles since he was nine fucking years old. He just prefers the real thing, be it paper, books, or even cars. It's nicer to be able to physically interact with the shit you're doing, instead of seeing it on a screen or having it done for you.

  
He must have a writing pad somewhere in his desk, not that he's had any real use for one in the past few years. He sets off for the bullpen. He should probably go find Connor, too, to fill him in. It would be nice to feel like he actually has a damn partner on this case. Fucking androids.

  
When he enters the bustling room, he zeroes in on the sight of Connor sat haphazardly on his desk. When he gets closer, Hank's relieved to see that the kids face is back to normal, but there's a horror in his eyes that makes Hank's stomach drop.

  
"Connor? What's wrong?" Hank asks, walking to stand directly in front of the frozen android. The tension in his body seems to dissipate all at once, and he almost falls back, but Hank grabs him by the shoulder and holds him up. He pointedly tries to ignore how Connor's dress shirt has ridden up somewhat, revealing some of the skin he had such a good view of the other night. "Jesus... What the fuck is going on with you today?"

  
"Lieutenant Anderson," a voice that sounds mildly familiar rings in his ears. It's low and slightly raspy, but devoid of any emotion, making it extremely unsettling. After making sure his android isn't about to collapse, he turns to face the owner of that voice.

  
He's met with the sight of an android almost as broad as he is tall, which is saying something. Hank recognises him, but he can't place from where. His eyes are completely unfamiliar, matching the eerie lack of emotion with their absence of any colour. His serial number throws Hank off a little, too. RK900, RK the same as Connor's. He's also wearing what looks like a neck brace, and the sight of it almost startles a chuckle out of Hank. It looks fucking ridiculous.

  
"Hello, Lieutenant. I am RK900. I'm sorry, I don't have long as I need to find my partner, but I'd just like to say that it will be an honour to work with you. I'm sure we'll make a great team." And then without waiting for a response, the android marches off. Hank's pretty sure Connor said those exact things to him around the time they first met. Weird. Hank turns back around to face his android.

  
"Connor? You wanna tell me what's up with you yet?" Hank asks, but Connor's not looking at him. His gaze is fixed on RK900's back, watching as the other android leaves. "Connor, fucking talk to me."

  
At that, Connor looks at him, and there's a faint hint of irony in his expression. Hank sucks in a huge breath, trying desperately to calm himself. This damn fucking android is going to have to talk to him at some point. When this case is over, whether they solve it or not, he is going to force it out of him, one way or another. This case is draining him of every drop of energy, he doesn't want to have to fight with his partner while it's still on-going.

  
"Shit," he mutters, suddenly remembering why he came out here. "The victim's going to draw us a little picture of the suspects. But I wouldn't have had to tell you that if you hadn't gone off to fight with Gavin this morning. You know, instead of doing your fuckin' job."

  
Connor visibly flinches at his words, but Hank's too riled up to care. He's pissed at Connor for hiding shit, for skulking off and leaving him, for looking so damn divine, for being so far out of his reach. And maybe that's unfair, but Hank doesn't give a shit.

  
He walks around Connor to get to his desk. When he reaches it, he wastes no time in pulling open drawers then slamming them closed, using significantly more force than is necessary. He knows he'll have to calm down before he goes to talk to the victim again, but he wants to wallow in his anger for a little while.

  
Hank finds a pad in the bottom drawer of his desk, along with a pen, both are covered in a thick layer of dust, and are the only things in the drawer. He probably put it in there a few years ago and forgot about it. Hank snorts bitterly at how typical of him that is. He pulls it out, coughing a little at the cloud of dust that this action creates.

  
He straightens up. He sees, to his chagrin, that Connor is still sat, frozen on his desk. He's been acting weird since they came back to work, so maybe it's stress that's causing it. Can androids even feel stressed? Hank doesn't fucking know.

  
He circles around the desk. "You coming?" Hank asks the practically catatonic android. He'd be worried if Connor wasn't doing this shit all the time these days. Although, perhaps that should make him even more worried. "Connor, come on."

  
The android blinks at him for a moment, then slowly rises to his feet. Well, at least he can still follow simple orders. Small mercies.

 

  
**-RK800-**

 

  
Connor twists the thumbtack in his grip as he and the Lieutenant walk their silent way towards the interview room. It had lodged itself in his palm when he had almost collapsed, and the pain had worked to lessen the itch to cleanse his hand. He hadn't even realised he'd picked it up.

  
The flashing, corrupted directive in his peripheral is a constant, painful presence in his mind. The thumbtack, when pressed just so into the synthetic skin on his palm, or fingers, helps to distract him from that ever-throbbing, ever-present ache.

 

  
**S̨͇̜͓̥̺̪ͮ́̑̒͡ͅE̥̣͑͒̆̂L̳̻͈̟͔̗͙̯̋̀̒̓̉̃̌̚ͅF̶̳̒͒ͯ͞-̶̖̪͓͎̯̓ͮ̒͑̈́̕͟Ḏ͇̦̲͕̖̩͇̟ͣ̋̊̈E̡̮̱̪̤͉̲ͯ̄ͨ̾̍͡S͖̬̀̔Tͤ҉̙͇Ṙ̸͕̬̼ͤͤ̂̈ͥ̈͞U̪̝̩̦͚̫̳̯ͫ̾͝C̜͚̞̳͈̪̺̝̔̈́̅ͮͦ̈̾̓ͧ͢͟Ţ͖̋**

 

  
To be truly rid of it, he will have to follow through.

  
They pass the RK900 in a hallway, the android is walking back the way they had come. Connor is intensely reminded of his inferiority, and he presses the thumbtack hard into his palm instinctively. His strength allows the tack to puncture the plastic beneath his skin, and he feels a single drop of thirium trickle down his fingers. His eyes automatically turn downcast until they have completely passed the other android, to avoid eye contact.

  
Connor wipes the thirium on his jacket. Hank hopefully won't be able to see it on the black fabric.

  
They reach the room, and Hank gives him a significant look. One that tells him 'don't fuck this up' in such a succinct way.

  
Hank enters first, Connor follows a few seconds after. Hank's shocked yell immediately alerts him to the fact that something's wrong.

  
The victim, an HR400, is slumped on one of the couches, LED unlit. Its face is twisted into an expression of pure terror, frozen. There is thirium trickling down from an open wound on the side of its head, biocomponent #3983v has been forcibly removed, which likely resulted in an immediate shutdown.

  
Its memory storage unit was ripped from its head. Connor blanches slightly. When had he started to refer to androids as 'it' again? He hadn't done so since his deviation. The thought of that event causes the directive to pulse painfully in his vision.

  
**S̨͇̜͓̥̺̪ͮ́̑̒͡ͅE̥̣͑͒̆̂L̳̻͈̟͔̗͙̯̋̀̒̓̉̃̌̚ͅF̶̳̒͒ͯ͞-̶̖̪͓͎̯̓ͮ̒͑̈́̕͟Ḏ͇̦̲͕̖̩͇̟ͣ̋̊̈E̡̮̱̪̤͉̲ͯ̄ͨ̾̍͡S͖̬̀̔Tͤ҉̙͇Ṙ̸͕̬̼ͤͤ̂̈ͥ̈͞U̪̝̩̦͚̫̳̯ͫ̾͝C̜͚̞̳͈̪̺̝̔̈́̅ͮͦ̈̾̓ͧ͢͟Ţ͖̋**

  
"Jesus," Hank mutters, his words cutting through Connor's reverie. "Is he dead?"

  
Connor nods.

  
"Christ." Hank sounds genuinely upset, Connor looks at him. "What the fuck are we gonna do now?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chris: You alright, dude?  
> Connor, crying and shaking: o yea im fine lol  
> Chris: Oh, okay, cool
> 
>  
> 
> One of my HC's about Connor is that when put under enough stress, he reverts back to his machine self. Like a fail-safe, almost. Might be a dumb idea, but I feel it fits with this story


End file.
